The Way We Live Now
by dochar ar bith ann
Summary: Sequel to THSOND. After the events of the fall, Notre Dame High is a changed place. Life seems pretty good. But the life of a high school student is never simple, least of all the lives of these particular students. Title borrowed from Trollope. FINISHED!
1. Chapter 1

Hellooooo everyone!

Well, I promised you a sequel, and here it is, woefully late. But I hope you enjoy it, even so. It's a continuation of my other fic, the High School of Notre Dame, in the form of a series of connected oneshots. There aren't per-chapter illustrations, but keep searching THSOND on deviantart every so often, because I shall be posting a few-odd pictures there relating to the story. My username is Linnellisgod.

Summary: Sequel to THSOND. After the events of the fall, Notre Dame High is a changed place. Life seems pretty good. But the life of a high school student is never simple, least of all the lives of these particular high school students.

Disclaimer: I owneth not. Also, I don't own the title. It belongs to Anthony Trollope; it's a wonderful book of his, which was also adapted into a wonderful miniseries. I highly reccomend it.

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

1

The windows were curtainless and open, and red sunset light spilled through them. It lit up the dust motes in the air and the five stained-glass wind chimes that hung from the upper windowsills; it bathed the room in fire-colours and brown-tinted greens.

Quasimodo knelt on the mattress, his eyes fixed on the carving above his bed. It depicted a woman holding a young child, and had anyone asked, he would have told them it was the Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ. But it had never been entirely that.

I suppose she died to save me, he thought.

Had she known he was deformed? He wasn't sure if it ought to matter. In the carving, he wasn't, because it had been nice to imagine himself as an ordinary child, even if just for a little bit.

Frollo had never willingly spoken about Quasimodo's mother. Laverne, who was now his legal guardian, had told him everything she could garner, but that had not been much. It had come as a total shock to learn that his mother was Romany.

He touched the smooth, sanded wood of the carving, and a slight, wry smile crossed his face.

He wished he could have had some sense of her; some vague memory, or even just a feeling, of what she had been like. But there was nothing; not even a hazy intimation of her presence. When he touched the wood of the carving he felt no spark of sudden recollection. She had died the night he was born, and that was all there was. He didn't even know what she looked like. She could have been anyone.

He hoped to God she would have been proud of him.

* * *

Okay, so there's chapter one. More coming soon. Thank you all for reading, waiting, et cetera!

-Mostly Harmless


	2. Chapter 2

Here's some more for ya.

Disclaimer: I owneth not. Also, I don't own the title. It belongs to Anthony Trollope; it's a wonderful book of his, which was also adapted into a wonderful miniseries. I highly reccomend it.

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

2

"Okay, now a little louder."

Quasimodo pushed the air out of his stomach, upping his volume a notch. He was capable, as he had proven to himself many times, of singing _extremely_ loudly, but soloing still thrilled and scared the heck out of him.

Mr. Cummings, sitting across from him in the practise room just outside the music classroom, nodded. "Perfect. If you want to throw a little vibrato in there, it won't hurt, but I like the simplicity of what you're doing now."

Quasimodo smiled, relieved. For all that Mr. Cummings, tall, gangly, British and irrepressibly cheerful, was not at all intimidating as a person, his musical expertise so far outstripped Quasimodo's that there was no comparison.

Mr. Cummings clapped his hands. "Right. That about wraps that up- well done. I'll let you get to your lunch now."

"Thanks for the help, sir," said Quasimodo, remembering only slightly too late that it wasn't really done to call teachers 'sir' anymore. He smiled sheepishly, and slipped out of the practise room.

The music room looked like it always did at lunch- loud, colourful, full of small groups of students who were uninterested in eating their lunch in the cafeteria. As they saw him emerge from the practise room, several of them waved or called greetings to him. He'd become relatively well-known, much to his own bewilderment. He joined Esmeralda and Clopin on the sofa. "Where's Phoebus?"

"Football practise," said Emerald, around a mouthful of poutine.  
"Ah."  
"Miracle Worker meeting tonight," mumbled Clopin, who was stretched out on the old music room sofa and, it being a Monday, looked only half-conscious. "Be there or be a square-shaped rectangle thing."

Quasimodo grinned. "Yeah, like we need to further alter my shape."

Esmeralda smacked him on the arm, not very hard. This was a frequent pattern in their conversations- he made a self-deprecating comment, Esmeralda gently rebuked him. Neither of them entirely meant it. She seemed to understand, even if the idealist in her was bothered by it, that making fun of himself was how Quasimodo coped.

Clopin rolled over, his hair clinging by static electricity to the fabric of the couch. "Tell your man-friend to be there too," he mumbled. "Matter of utmost and absolute importance. No excuses. He has to be there."

"What matter would this be?" asked Esmeralda, unimpressed.

"We're watching _My Fair Lady_."

Esmeralda rounded on Clopin, and now it seemed to be his turn to be swatted at by her. Clopin recoiled, apparently waking fully from his Monday stupor. "What? I won't have you dating some uncultured _malotru_ who's never even seen _My Fair Lady_."

"Pheobus is plenty cultured," Esmeralda said coolly. "Culture didn't exactly improve Rex Harrison much anyway, now did it?"

Clopin mumbled something to himself that sounded suspiciously like "wellyou'renoAudreyHepburnareyou."

"And I don't recall asking your opinion," added Esmeralda. her chin tilted haughtily.

Had it been a real fight, it would have made Quasimodo uneasy, but it wasn't. Esme and Clopin reminded him of Victor and Hugo at moments like this; cousins and best friends, scrapping harmlessly over everything. Usually it was about Phoebus, who, in Clopin's opinion, was white and a football jock and therefore deserved to be gently mocked at every opportunity.

Clopin seemed to have tired of squabbling with her, and he turned abruptly to Quasimodo. "How's the solo coming?" he asked.

Quasimodo hesitated slightly, tracing the progress of Clopin's meandering train of thought, and then shrugged. "Pretty well. Apparently I should experiment with more vibrato."

Esmeralda's lips twitched mischievously. "Why don't you show us?"

"Nah," said Quasimodo, shaking his head, "Not now." That was one problem with the music room- it might have been noisy, but the moment anyone started anything even vaguely like a performance, suddenly everyone was listening. It was embarrassing. And they knew it.

"Come on," said Clopin, "Mr. C. says you're his only hope."

"Sing," commanded Esmeralda, "right now."

"No," Quasimodo insisted, trying not to laugh at the look of determination on Esme's face, "I refuse."

"Fine," said Clopin, undeterred, "_we'll_ sing it." He broke into the chorus of 'Bridge Over Troubled Water', closely followed by Esmeralda, who sang the harmony part she had been taught in Vocal Class.

It didn't take long for it to get too embarrassing not to join in.

--

Across the room, three girls sat eating their lunches in relative quiet. One of them, a black-haired Asian girl, was watching the group in the corner with an expression of faint longing on her face.  
Suzanne knew the song, and she wished she could have joined in- But she couldn't particularly sing, unlike these three, and even if she had been able to, she wasn't one of their little group.

They were in the music room almost every day at lunch, the four of them. One was missing today, and it made a noticeable difference in the room. She knew them by reputation, though she'd spoken no more than five words to any of them- Esmeralda, the gorgeous dancer with whom half the school was utterly in love; Phoebus, her equally gorgeous football captain boyfriend; Clopin, king of the drama department and hilarious nutcase; and Quasimodo, the deformed, hunch-backed and incredibly ugly boy who had apparently turned out to be a pretty neat guy.

She found their friendship perplexing. Apart from being Miracle Workers, and having major rumoured involvement with 'The Frollo Thing', the four of them did not seem to have any kind of common ground. They were not all artistic, or particularly athletic, or scholarly, or anything else she could identify. Their ages varied by three years. They certainly weren't basing it on looks; for all that Esme, Phoebus and Clopin had all inspired daydreams about the school, Quasimodo certainly never had, and he seemed to be as core a member as any other. But still, they were clearly such good friends, and they clearly had so much fun...

"Suzanne?"

Suzanne shook herself mentally. "Eh? Sorry?"

"Are you still coming over on Thursday?"

Suzanne looked at Lindsay, controlling, dull, a bit vapid, her best friend, and tried to imagine Esmeralda in her place, asking her to come and watch _My Fair Lady _at the Miracle Worker clubhouse, even though it was a Romany club and she wasn't even _really_ Chinese.

"Sure," said Suzanne, "of course."

* * *

One more chapter, and you've met Suzanne. I hope she works as a character. She's a little weird. R and R, guys!

-Mostly Harmless


	3. Chapter 3

Thankies to my reviewers!

So apparently there are people in the world who don't know what poutine is... (poor fools). This will be one of many, many references to Canadian or Quebecois culture. For a full explanation, message me.

Disclaimer: I owneth not. Also, I don't own the title. It belongs to Anthony Trollope; it's a wonderful book of his, which was also adapted into a wonderful miniseries. I highly recommend it.

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

3

The final bell sounded like a prison break, that day. Everyone was tired and desperate to get home; between the late nights and the sugar rushes, Hallowe'en had sapped their energy.

Quasimodo bumped into Phoebus in the stairwell, on his way to the front of the school where Laverne usually showed up to pick him up.

"I hoped I'd see you," said Phoebus, falling in beside him, "though admittedly you're not easy to miss."  
"Go die under a rock somewhere," said Quasimodo, quite cheerfully.

Phoebus didn't seem to notice. It was normal behaviour on both their parts. "Is there a meeting tonight?"  
"Yes," confirmed Quasimodo, "and if you don't come Clopin will hurt you."

Phoebus nodded, his lips thinning. "I thought he might. Sorry about lunch, but they really needed me."

"It's not a problem," said Quasimodo. "Clopin misses way more with improv club, anyway, so he's in no position to complain- not that that stops him," he added, ruefully, shaking his head and smiling. Nobody could complain quite like Clopin. Esmeralda had a nickname for him- Whiny Bitch- and he'd earned every inch of it.

A brief shadow of uncertainty passed across Phoebus' face. The expression looked out of place on him. "Yeah, but that's arty stuff."

Quasimodo frowned, wondering why that should make any difference. Phoebus was entitled to do what he liked with his lunch hours; they all knew that.

"Hey," said Phoebus, mirroring Quasimodo's frown as they left the stairwell and headed for the front doors, "do you ever get the impression Es wants me to be a bit more... well, more of an artist? I mean you guys are all so creative and I'm really just a jock..."

Wow, thought Quasimodo, unable to keep himself from snorting in amusement. Phoebus gets feelings of inadequacy too.  
"What?" asked Phoebus, suddenly defensive.  
Quasimodo's expression sobered as he regained control. "Sorry. You just sound like me."

"Hey, we don't care about_ that_," said Phoebus, looking shocked, "we'd be jerks if we did. I just think it'd be nice if we could have more, you know, common ground. I thought I might take up guitar or bass or something." He paused as they reached the front door, shifting the weight of his backpack on his shoulders. "What do you think?"

Quasimodo shrugged. He wasn't entirely sure why Phoebus had to ask. "Uh- well, Esme would love you for it, but I think she likes you fine as it is. Go for it, if you want."

"Yeah," said Phoebus, looking more confident, "I think I will. You know, just something to make me fit in with you guys a bit better. Some kind of... art initiative."

As Phoebus said his goodbyes and ran to catch his bus, Quasimodo wondered if Phoebus had experienced the feeling he got occasionally, when he spent time with them all; the feeling of being conspicuously different, awkward, outclassed. Given that it was usually Phoebus he compared himself to in those moments, it would certainly be ironic.

It was a pity there wasn't some hobby he could take up to fix that feeling. But there were plenty of things he could do to help himself ignore it, and_ he _had a little 'art initiative' up his sleeve as well.

* * *

Well, that's what we got. I'll provide some more shortly. Review, s'il vous plait!

-Mostly Harmless


	4. Chapter 4

Hello again!

I am so sorry about the long wait. Stupid CPTs and exams.

Disclaimer: I owneth not. Also, I don't own the title. It belongs to Anthony Trollope; it's a wonderful book of his, which was also adapted into a wonderful miniseries. I highly recommend it.

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

4

Esmeralda hummed along with Sam Cooke.

_"Don't know much about History,  
Don't know much Biology..."_

Damn, had he ever nailed it.

Unfortunately, she was going to have to_ learn _about History, and that was after she finished with Trigonometry and Algebra. She sighed, and changed the music to something Classical. It was supposed to help you concentrate.

The figures on the page seemed to slide in and out of the sensible. She knew she almost had it; she'd almost figured out _why_ the example made sense, but it kept slipping away from her.

Well, she could always call Quasi. Or Phoebus.

Esmeralda didn't think she'd ever dated a guy who was smarter than her before now. And for someone who'd always gotten sixties in math, that wasn't a good thing. Phoebus wasn't an absolute genius, like Quasi seemed to be (although that was mostly hard work; she'd never met more of a goody-two-shoes as far as homework was concerned). He got eighties. But not only did he never rub them in her face, he seemed to _understand. _

She crossed the room and plucked the phone from its cradle, dialling a number with practised speed. Four rings, and someone picked up.

"Hello?" said the warm, deep, certain voice of Phoebus.

"Hey," said Esmeralda.

He recognized her voice immediately; of course he did. "Hey, Emerald- what's up?"

Emerald. That was his little nickname for her- because of her name, and her eyes. He said she was a gem.

She hadn't called him because she needed help. It just felt nice to know he was there.

"No real reason," she replied, "I just wanted to hear your voice."

She could hear the smile in his tone. "Well, I'm always happy to talk."

Esmeralda smiled back. "I'd better go- I have to finish some stuff up before we go out tonight."

"Okay," said the voice of Phoebus, a bit perplexed but utterly fond.

Esmeralda suddenly felt silly, and her face flushed red. "I'll see you at the restaurant," she said. "Just- just thought I'd say hi."

She hung up the phone, smiled foolishly for several seconds, and then returned to the textbook in front of her.

* * *

Sorry again about the wait. More soon. R&R? Please?

-Mostly Harmless


	5. Chapter 5

Aaaand here's one more for you, to make up for the wait.

Disclaimer: I owneth not. Also, I don't own the title. It belongs to Anthony Trollope; it's a wonderful book of his, which was also adapted into a wonderful miniseries. I highly recommend it.

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

5

The idea had first occurred to him when he'd learned about the pins.

It was an ND tradition, a way of showing appreciation to the students who got involved. At the end of every month, one pin would be awarded per every extracurricular activity, to the student who contributed to it the most. There were also pins for the most dedicated student in a department, which were considerably harder to win. You could only win each type of pin once. Most people had at least one, and they were displayed with pride on the front of their royal-blue Notre Dame vests.

All in all, there were about thirty different pins. And yet there didn't seem to be any, any at _all_, for visual arts.

Quasimodo wasn't sure if he was the person for the job, but _somebody_ had to remedy this situation.

It was in the announcements all week, thanks to M. Saint-Paul, and by Friday afternoon there were enough people waiting in the Arts room to constitute a real after-school activity. Quasimodo, a few lumps of soft pine and some fine-gauge wood-carving tools under one arm, slipped through the door, saw their eyes immediately magnetize themselves to him, and swallowed.

He hadn't seen himself in a leadership role- well, ever, really, but certainly not so soon. He'd anticipated being nervous, and he had been utterly right.

Quasimodo put the supplies down on an empty desk, crossed to the front of the room, and tried to convince himself that he knew what he was doing. "Okay," he heard himself saying, "I think we're ready to get started."

Anyone who hadn't been paying attention before certainly was now. That was a small perk, he thought. Nobody with a face like his would ever have to fight for attention.

"You- probably all know who I am," he said, with a sheepish smile. "If you don't, my name's Quasimodo Frollo-" Yes, _that _Frollo, he thought, but didn't say it out loud- "-And, well, as you know our school doesn't have much of an extracurricular arts program, so I, er, thought I'd randomly start one."

A few people near the front, obviously the bolder ones, began to applaud. Quasimodo hadn't expected that at all, and it caught him slightly off-guard. Why, he wondered, do these people seem to _like_ me so much?

He cleared his throat slightly, hoping they'd get the message and stop. They did. "So, um, what we're going to be doing is meeting here every Friday to work on whatever artwork we want. There's, ah, a twenty-five-dollar member fee, which covers supplies, and I'm going to be getting a few guest speakers in to show us how to work in certain media, so it'll go towards that too. You can use the time to work on whatever project you want, but the best pieces- the arts teachers are the judge of that, not me- are going to be exhibited at school concerts and in the display cases in the Atrium, so my suggestion is Be Ambitious."

He hesitated for a half-second, and then remembered the last thing he'd wanted to talk about. "We're going to try to have a table running every Friday where you can try out an unusual medium. Today it's wood-carving, which I guess is my area of expertise, so I'll be running that one. Uh..." He shrugged, clapping his hands. "That's it. Get started."

The room filled with the buzz of conversation, as groups of friends broke off to get materials and chat amongst themselves. Quasimodo grabbed the tools and the wood that he'd brought from home, and began to set up the table. Hopefully his looks wouldn't scare away anyone who wanted to learn how to carve.

To his shock, when he looked up from laying out the last of the necessary tools, at least half the room was assembled in front of his little table.

He began to show them the basic technique, feeling utterly bewildered. He didn't seem to be scaring anyone away, that was certain.

* * *

And that's how it goes. Don't worry, rabid Clopin fangirls. Next chapter. I promise.

-Mostly Harmless


	6. Chapter 6

Hi again!

Like I promised. Clopin-time.

Disclaimer: I owneth not. Also, I don't own the title. It belongs to Anthony Trollope; it's a wonderful book of his, which was also adapted into a wonderful miniseries. I highly recommend it.

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

6

There were two reasons why Clopin had started going to the Rue Arch-ange Music store so often.

The first was that he was getting bored with his musical endeavours at present. True, he was a dab hand at guitar and trombone and tuba, could hammer out a few decent piano chords or a nice African-drum rhythm, could even get a few decent sounds from a flute. But aside from having the knack necessary to pick up an instrument quickly, Clopin had a very short attention span, and now he longed for something new and different, something truly unusual.

The second and perhaps the more influential reason was the deeply lovely young woman who worked behind the counter, a petite, teasing, blue-eyed brunette who still refused to tell him her name.

Clopin burst into the shop, sending the bell that hung above the door into a frenzy of high-pitched peals, and scrambled to the counter. "Anything new, Cherie?" he asked, because it was what he asked every time he came.

The anonymous beauty raised a perfect eyebrow, as though she was trying to look unamused, Clopin could see the corners of her mouth quiver as she fought a smile. "No, not yet. I told you, we're not getting anything new besides guitars until the 10th."

He leaned one elbow on the countertop, stroking his goatee with one hand and looking, at least in his own opinion, extremely handsome and debonair. "Well, maybe I don't want to wait until the 10th for an excuse to see you again, hm?"

The girl rolled her eyes, still evidently trying to hide a glimmer of a grin. "And yet you keep asking."

Clopin narrowed his eyes, peering at her. "You know, for a salesperson you do not smile much. You ought to smile properly, instead of this silly little pout, hm? Une belle sourire, s'il vous plait?" He touched his fingers to his cheeks, pulling his mouth into a wide, joker-esque grimace.

She was caught between annoyance and laughter, and slowly, inch by inch, a full smile crept onto her face.

He leapt up, punching the air in one smooth, extravagant motion. "That's it! That's it, ma chere! Now only two things remain!"

"What are those?" she asked, trying not to laugh.

"You must tell me _what_ special instruments you are expecting on the 10th, mademoiselle, and you must tell me your name."

She smiled her teasing, infuriating little smile, leaning in, and in a conspiratorial whisper she said, "Here's a hint: The answers to both of those questions begin with an A."

* * *

More coming very soon- please r&r, for the love of Pete.

-Mostly Harmless


	7. Chapter 7

I told you so.

Disclaimer: I owneth not. Also, I don't own the title. It belongs to Anthony Trollope; it's a wonderful book of his, which was also adapted into a wonderful miniseries. I highly recommend it.

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

7

In the quiet gloom, he heard footsteps, and the jangling of keys, and then the guard said, "Mr. Frollo, visitor."

Frollo sighed. He could tell by the man's tone who had come to see him, but refusing to go was not an option.

The guard unlocked the door, handcuffing him briefly, and lead him to a room of small booths divided in two by a pane of bullet-proof glass. He was seated on a stool in one of the middle stalls. On the other side of the glass was a monstrous sight, but one with which he was well acquainted.

Quasimodo looked subtly different. He seemed to hold himself a little straighter, and the expression upon that twisted mask was calm.

Frollo looked down his nose at the boy, willing him to flinch. He did not.

"What do you want?" demanded Frollo.

"You know," said Quasimodo, calmly, "speaking to me civilly would probably help your case for parole."

The mongrel had a point, but Frollo was unwilling to admit it. "What do you want?" he repeated.

Quasimodo took a breath, as if preparing himself for an explosion, and winced slightly. "To ask about my mother."

Frollo fought to keep his face impassive, fought the sudden and unfulfillable urge to attack the boy, to destroy the traces of _her gone wrong _that were hidden in his face. "What," he hissed, though it suddenly felt painful to speak, "makes you think you have _any right _to speak to _me_ about _her_?"

Quasimodo smiled, sadly, and for an instant Frollo could see her very clearly in the quirk of his mouth. Then it disappeared, behind that twisted jaw and that horrible tumerous brow. "I thought not," Quasimodo murmured, and then he stood, turning his back on Frollo as he limped away. "Goodbye, sir."

* * *

Man, I hate writing from Frollo's prespective. I'm very picky about his bits because he's such an intense character and I tend to second-guess myself hugely.

Well, anyway, please R&R. The Frollo-fans probably hate me now, because I keep altering and abusing the character.

-Mostly Harmless


	8. Chapter 8

More, finally. Stupid exams. It's the old story. I think the most irritating thing, actually, is that once I'm done with one exam the information still seems to be taking up space. I'll be trying to study for religion and start doodling quadratic equations from yesterday's math exam in the margins.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

8

"You've got _every_ bloody right."

Quasimodo looked up from the glass he was drying, giving Laverne a weary look. "You didn't see his face. He still can't talk about her, really, he can't." It was difficult to explain, given all the man's crimes, but that _look_ on his face... had broken Quasimodo's heart.

Laverne, who was washing dishes as he dried them, put her wet, knarled old hands on her hips. "You are fifteen. I refuse to let you be the adult in this conversation."

He sighed. "I'm not trying to be the adult, 'Verne, I don't like him any more than you do."

"Yes you do." She looked almost angry now. "You've always been the good son."

Quasimodo paused, looking up at her, and though it made no sense he felt as if she were accusing him of something.

Laverne let her gaze fall to the faded china dishes, scrubbing at them with a sudden, unforgiving vigour. "He doesn't deserve it," she said. "It's always been like this. He's so bitter about what he's missing he won't even look at what's right in front of him."

Again, he did not know what to say, though he knew that she was right. There was a long pause, as they worked in silence.

"You have _every_ right," Laverne repeated, at long last.

* * *

This fic is short on the gargoyles, I know. Sue me.

-Mostly Harmless


	9. Chapter 9

And yet again. Y'know, I never planned to post in twos all the time but it's just so much easier that way.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

9

Suzanne had an awkward body with wide hips and skinny shoulders, and a face that was relatively pretty but for small eyes and a smaller mouth. She was far shorter than her adoptive parents, because sometimes the stereotypes were true, and felt uncomfortable with math and computers, because sometimes they weren't. Her French-Irish family tried to keep her in touch with Chinese culture, with token success- She knew the names and meanings of all the festivals and traditions, and her middle name was Mai-Ling, but she knew deep down that despite her straight black hair and her dark Asian eyes she had missed that internal _Chineseness_. It had taken her a long time to settle into the body and life that was hers.

She had missed other things, besides Chineseness, and one of them was that knack for social communication, for making friends. It was as if she'd been absent the day they'd gone over that. There were only a handful of people in the world with whom she was not deeply, terminally awkward. Her friends were the clutch of girls who had been sitting near her on the first day of class, talking about a movie she happened to have seen. Sometimes she thought they had absolutely nothing else in common.

It was funny how they all thought she was quiet and boring. She didn't tend to talk around them. Often, it was easier just to regress into her own thoughts when she was with them. Her thoughts were comfortable; they made sense. Being adopted, at least for her, had give her cause to think so often about who she was that by now she felt she knew every corner of her own mind.

She knew that she was an artist at heart. Though her talent was not profound, she appreciated art very profoundly; appreciated not just the work itself but the ideas, the influences, and the life that shaped it. It was a kind of Art Psychiatry. Through art, the subtleties that normally escaped her in her graceless social life were laid bare. But it was a difficult thing to explain to a group of teenagers who had befriended you completely arbitrarily and who were more interested in giggling than thinking. And so she did not tell her friends about her reasons for joining the new art club, or, indeed, about having joined at all.

Suzanne had known that he was a very good singer, but she had not realized that Quasimodo was a visual artist. It would have been completely and laughably impossible to tell her friends this, but the idea of _him_, as an artist, had fascinated her. What a life, what a unique perspective- Who better on earth to put brush to paper and produce something entirely his own?

* * *

More Suzanne stuff. She was a fun character to put together, because she kept evolving herself as I wrote her. I had very little control.

=DR&R, for the love of Pete!=D

-Mostly Harmless


	10. Chapter 10

Ahh. Long wait times again. BUT NO MORE! Exams are now over, ALL of them, even bloody terrifying vocal exams that I surely failed.

Here's a quickie chapter to tide you over.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

9

Phoebus checked his fingers for what seemed like the twentieth time, took a deep breath, and strummed the chord.

Not quite right, but very close.

Sitting cross-legged on the thick cream-coloured rug in his otherwise unfinished basement, he could hear every note with absolute clarity. His father's old guitar sat in his lap, the scuffed, honey-coloured wood surprisingly warm under his hands. Within the past two weeks, he'd gotten through all the basic chords, and managed to get the transitions relatively clean. Now he was working on a more complex chord, mimicking the fingering marked out in a battered old guitar book which sat on the floor in front of him. His hands ached.

Learning guitar seemed harder than anything he had ever done. Realistically, it hadn't really been that difficult. But it seemed as if suddenly all his life was guitar, guitar chords and buying picks and strings and sore fingers and late nights learning how to read tabs. And that was the reason for the other thing lying in front of him- a single colour photo, printed off of Facebook, one of his favourite pictures of Esmeralda. It was from the Halloween party, the four of them all together in their costumes. Quasimodo, dressed as a French Revolutionary, looked a little wide-eyed, almost frightened (Phoebus had realized shortly after taking the picture that Quasi really wasn't used to photos). Clopin looked mad and sugar-high, which he had been at the time, in a comic-book-era superhero costume complete with a dramatic cape. Phoebus himself looked like an utter goof, dressed, against his wishes, as a lion. But Essie looked really amazing. She'd gone as Bob Dylan, complete with cigarette, (which was in fact a hollow tube of rolled-up loose leaf) pinstripe hat, insane hair and guitar. And in that shot she looked so stunning, so feisty and beautiful and unlike anyone he had ever met before, that when he looked at it he was willing to learn anything for her.

* * *

Heh. Poor, hen-pecked Phoebus. Well, not really, but still. I'm half-finished drawing that facebook halloween picture, so look for it soonish on

-Mostly Harmless


	11. Chapter 11

And here we all are again. This chapter is partially intended to express my dislike of religion class.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

11

"This project is all about your childhood, starting with birth and focussing on the before-school years. Because we can't remember them, it's easy to forget that those years are the ones that really shape who you are. So I want lots of stories, dates of anything really important that happened to you, and plenty of pictures. You'll be presenting in front of the class; due next Monday."

Quasimodo slumped in his seat, exhaling slowly. Photos. Fuck-a-doodle-doo.

His religion class had just had a seat change, and he was beside an Asian girl with a slightly odd build whose name was Suzanne. He was fairly sure she was in the Art Club. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, and he thought he saw a ghost of a sympathetic expression on her face.

The religion teacher clapped her hands. "You've got the rest of the class to work on it," she announced, and instantly the classroom filled with a low buzz of conversation as students let their attention drop.

"Brilliant," muttered Quasimodo, sighing. Until this year and Clopin's digital camera, he had never seen a photograph of himself. Frollo didn't exactly have albums and albums of them.

"You know," said Suzanne, somewhat abruptly, breaking into his bubble of thought, "you could probably get out of the photograph bit. She'd understand if it'd be unpleasant..."

Then she drew her hands up to her mouth, and her cheeks flushed slightly. "Oh. Shit. Did not mean it like that. Oh, shit, I'm sorry."

Quasimodo looked at her round, pink, embarrassed face, and started to laugh. This always seemed to happen. People got tongue-tied around him. She was getting upset about nothing at all. "Don't worry," he said, breathless, still laughing, "I didn't take it like an insult- you obviously didn't- Don't worry. Trust me, I'm really hard to offend."

She started to laugh as well, but it was a miserable laugh. "Shit," she moaned, for the third time, banging the butt of her hand into her forehead. "Open mouth, insert foot."

For all that it was funny, Quasimodo wished she wouldn't blame herself when it truly had not bothered him. "Don't worry about it," he repeated, with a smile. "People say way stupider things than that around me. Well- not that what _you_ said was stupid, but- shit." He put his face in his hands, trying not to laugh again. "Now I'm doing it too. Will the awkwardness never cease?"

Suzanne hid a giggle behind one hand.

Quasimodo looked down at the brainstorming page in front of him. Except for the word 'Photos?', it was completely blank. He picked up a pencil, idly, and doodled the words ' I'm so screwed' just below it. "I kind of wish everyone would just say what's on their minds," he said, sobering slightly.

"Okay," said Suzanne, and when he looked up at her face she looked very thoughtful. Her eyes, though small, were dark and deep. "Um... _are_ there any photos of you? When you were younger? What did you look like?"

"Uhh..." Quasimodo hesitated. "Different." He tried to recall an image of himself, at around eight, and found his memory nearly blank. It came as something of a shock not to be able to summon up a mental picture. "I'm not really sure... I don't think there _are_ any pictures of me." He put his face into his hands, laughing at his own shame. "Except for the ones Clopin took at Halloween where I'm dressed as a French revolutionary, but I've begged him to delete them."

Again, she giggled. "You honestly could get out of the project if you asked."

He shook his head. "I don't want special treatment."

Their conversation ended there, as Suzanne, suddenly quiet, returned to planning her project out. Quasimodo did the same, but he got very little done.

He didn't want to not have to do this project just because he was deformed. That was ridiculous; that was unfair and condescending and completely invalid. But he knew almost nothing, beyond the disproportionate haze of memory, of his own early childhood. He had no mother. Laverne wasn't the sentimental sort. And the idea of Frollo sitting him down and telling him all the stories about funny things he'd said and his first word and the first time he walked and all that stuff made him want to laugh out loud. Not only were there no photographs, there was no information. The child he had been was completely foreign to him.

* * *

Poor, awkward Suzanne.

It's a real project. That's what I really dislike about religion class- it's not that I didn't have fun putting together pictures of me, because everyone's favourite topic is themselves, but there's so much else we could be doing with that time that we would learn much more from. Bothers me.

-Mostly Harmless


	12. Chapter 12

Okay, some more fluff. And speaking of fluff, remember that facebook picture from chapter 10 that I promised to post on for you? It's UP! Search 'THSoND Facebook Halloween', and as always my username is Linnellisgod.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

12

Walking their dogs together had been Phoebus's idea. He was the one more inclined to romanticism, and his dog, a noble and massive Mountain Pyrenees, was big enough to actually need regular walking. Esme's dog, Djali, was a beagle-terrier mix, and he got all the exercise he needed following her around everywhere she went.

Phoebus had been the one to find their dog-walking 'spot', too. Neither Achilles, Phoebus's hound, nor Djali, needed or were accustomed to leashes. That meant the public parks were out, and all the really well-travelled streets. So he'd found a quiet, isolated path, and she had instantly fallen in love with it.

It was by the edge of the lake just north of the big library, no more than fifteen minutes' walk from either of their houses. It bordered directly on the water, and much of it was not so much path as eroded rock outcrop. It had an unkempt, wild-flowing feel to it. The water of the lake was cold, and clear, and never seemed to be disturbed by more than the slightest breeze. Even today, when the late November wind was biting and the trees had stripped themselves skeletal and bare, the surface was strangely calm.

Phoebus and Esmeralda walked slowly, holding hands, and they were flanked on either side by their dogs. The stillness of the place was infectious, and even Djali loped along at a slow and meditative pace. There was no sound but their movements and the strange, intermittent, crystalline sound made by the layer of rough ice that had already built up around the shore as water lapped up against it.

After a while, though she was hesitant to break the sacred stillness, Esmeralda spoke. "So what are you doing for Christmas?"

"Not much," said Phoebus. "My family always do the vigil and so on, and Mum usually gets stuck hosting Christmas dinner… Oh, I wanted to talk to you about that."

Esmeralda thought it was charming the way he said 'Mum' instead of 'Mom'. "About what?" she asked, only half concentrating.

"I thought-" Phoebus looked at her with brown eyes that were rich and warm amongst the cold, and his face was sincere, begging a question. "Maybe you'd like to have Christmas dinner with us?"

Esmeralda thought of Phoebus's dining room, decorated with candles and a wreath and a massive Christmas tree in the next room, of a table groaning with cutlery and china and food all expertly arranged, of Phoebus's parents and all his relatives, who in her mind all had a little of him in their faces. She imagined the meal, and the feeling of nervousness at meeting his extended family, and how it would slowly melt into utter happiness when they were all as sweet and charming as he was. How great it would be if they all _liked_ her.

"If you've gotta be with your family for Christmas dinner, I totally understand," said Phoebus.

So considerate, she thought, and so kind. She could not remember the last time she had been so happy. "Phoebus," she told him, standing on tip-toes to kiss him quickly, "I would love to come."

Then the peck became a proper kiss, and Esmeralda thought she knew what Perfect felt like.

* * *

I hate writing straight-up romance. I have absolutely no firsthand experience in the area, see, so it becomes damned awkward. Ah well. One must suffer for one's art.

-Mostly Harmless


	13. Chapter 13

ARRRGH!

So my computer is dead. Meaning that I have had no access to the internet for several days, which is why I have not updated. now, however, my i-net is hopefully back in permanent business. Thanks for waiting.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

13

No, there were some things you definitely did not share with your friends. Like how to her, the most interesting person in the entire school was not some arrogant tool with a pretty face, but rather an artistic and deeply sweet boy who was also seriously deformed.

Suzanne didn't see why only good-looking people were really considered interesting. He seemed to surprise her every time she saw him. Like on the first meeting of the Arts Club, when she'd gotten a chance to see his work.

She hadn't made much progress learning wood-carving, because she had been watching him rather than working. At first, his technique had interested her; his speed and dexterity and the ease with which he worked. Then she'd begun to notice what he was actually carving, and that had been even more interesting. She understood that he had chosen something very simple and generic, something that would show them technique, but even so- a bird. Stylized; caught in the instant as it took flight. He had not gotten the chance to finish it, but the roughness of the carving had not detracted from what she perceived as the meaning: freedom.

And then, in the final half-hour after the wood-carving had all been put away, he had quietly set to work on a massive, half-finished pencil sketch so remarkable she'd had trouble tearing her eyes away from it. It depicted a bell-tower, from the inside, or at least that was what it seemed to be; twenty-one squat, wide-lipped bells arranged in three rows.

They were all made from smooth, reflective metal, but for one- it was dark, rough iron, pockmarked and clumsily cast. She understood the significance of that, but could not have explained why he had chosen bells, or the inscription that appeared to have been carved, small but deep, into the flank of the mismatched bell; _Famille_.

She had wanted to ask him, that day in religion, but he had said something that made her forget about _famille_.

I don't want special treatment, was what he had said. That, she felt, was very admirable.

Suzanne was eager to speak to him again.

* * *

One more coming soon.

-Mostly Harmless


	14. Chapter 14

As a thank-you for your waiting, here is the token 'funny chapter'.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

14

Apparently, the new guitar blisters on his fingers had not been enough.

Phoebus had taken considerable care in making sure he had the time for tonight's Miracle Worker meeting right, since there had been a football schedule to work around. And yet when he arrived at the HQ's impressive, heavily decorated door, he found it unlocked, and the room within strangely empty. He frowned, glancing from left to right.

And then, from behind him, someone said "Now!" in an intense whisper, and before he could react, a thick cloth bag was pulled down over his head and someone was holding his arms behind his back with a grip that was gentle but utterly unshakeable.

Phoebus could see nothing. He began to struggle, but it was like trying to fight a wall.

Wait a minute…

Phoebus stopped struggling entirely. "Guys," he began, his voice muffled by the

cloth, "what the hell are you doing?"

"Ah, merde," said the voice of Clopin, "He knows it's us."

"Damn right I do," said Phoebus, trying to sound very unamused. "This bag smells like horrible old onions."

"That's because normally we keep the horrible old onions in there," explained the voice of Quasimodo, as if speaking to a child. Then, "Take it off him, Clopin, I still don't know _why_ you wanted to do that."

"It's a Quebec tradition," said Clopin.

"Was that meant to be an FLQ joke?" asked Phoebus. "If so it was in very poor taste."

"You're just saying that because you're an Anglo, and because you have a bag on your head."

Phoebus could taste the inside of the bag; bits of lint were getting on his tongue. "C'mon, take the bag off, it's really pretty nasty in here."

He felt the sack shifting, and then it was tugged off and the world had light and fresh air again. Clopin balled it up and tossed it away. "You will do everything we tell you to, and you will not scream. In exchange, we will let you live."

Phoebus, knowing that some sick prank was about to be perpetrated, was caught between amusement and worry. "Oh God," he said, in an utter deadpan.

"I think that's a yes," said Quasimodo, who seemed to be enjoying himself almost as much as Clopin was. He let go of Phoebus's wrists. "Take it away, Maestro."

Clopin, grinning wickedly, directed them to a chair with a high back near a corner of the room that normally held a broad wooden desk. There was a curtain slung haphazardly in front of the desk, as if to prevent him from seeing whatever was on it.

"Assis-toi, and hold still," said Clopin.

Phoebus rolled his eyes, and sat.

"Ice," said Clopin, who was obviously giving the orders. Quasimodo nodded and scuttled behind the curtain, emerging with a plastic cup filled with rapidly melting ice cubes. He picked one carefully from the cup, and held it to Phoebus's right earlobe. The cold was shocking for a moment, and then slowly seemed to fade as the flesh numbed.

Phoebus had a moment of horrible, freezing realization.

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes," said Clopin.

"Why?" demanded Phoebus, hysteria creeping into his voice.

Clopin leaned in, grinning. "It's sort of like a religion, being Romany, you know. You date one of us, you _become_ one of us. And, as everyone knows, we wear-" he tugged gently at the gold hoop that dangled from his own ear- "An earring." He bowed briefly, then disappeared behind the curtain.

Phoebus thought of his own ear, unremarkable, clean, unblemished, and of the great whopping needle they were surely about to poke through it. "How come _Quasi_ doesn't have to?" he asked, indignantly, "_He_'s Roma by blood."

Quasimodo snorted. "I'd look like a total poser, obviously."

"And I _won't_?" said Phoebus, his voice cracking pathetically.

"But you _are_ a poser. So that's okay."

"I hate you two," Phoebus whined.

His ear was now mostly numb, but he felt the wetness go away as Quasimodo removed the ice. It was almost completely melted by now, and he dropped the shrunken remainder into the cup, flicking water from his hand.

Clopin re-emerged, holding a small piece of apple and a three-inch darning needle. The needle looked evil. Its tip was blackened, as if it had been held in a flame, and viciously sharp. He knelt, holding the apple to the back of Phoebus's earlobe, and stared down the length of the needle, aiming it like a tiny spear.

Phoebus's head was spinning. He opened his mouth, and got out the words, "Wait, don't-". Then a biting pain speared through his left earlobe, burning hot and oh god it was _in _his _ear_-

He fainted.

--

Clopin pulled the needle out, glancing at Phoebus. "A perfect piercing, and- Hey, what happened to him?"

Quasimodo, whose face was in his hands, groaned. "Wrong ear, dumbass."

* * *

Poor Phoebus. We like to pick on him.

-Mostly harmless.


	15. Chapter 15

AHHGHGHGH. Why is the universe conspiring against me?

I thought our internet was fixed. It wasn't. It is now, for the time being. I do apologize. Anyhoo, here is some fic to tide you over.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

15

The project was due on Monday. It was Friday afternoon, and he had absolutely nothing.

He did not actually want to go back, to see him again. The fact that Frollo was miserable made his cruelty no less wounding, and Quasimodo still felt some of the true fear Frollo had once inspired in him. But who else would know about the night he was born?

Or about his mother?

She was not part of the project. But his curiosity about her had been growing for over two months now, ever since he'd found out that she was Romany.  
It was not yet December, and already there was snow on the ground, with the clouds promising still more. The jail was just close enough to walk to. Since Laverne was constantly busy now that she no longer worked for Frollo and technically had a child, he decided not to trouble her to drive him, and instead left her a note when he got home from school and set out on his own. The sky was already darkening when he left, full of swollen cloud, and his heavy coat was only just enough to keep him warm.

He had ventured around town with Phoebus, Esmeralda and Clopin enough that most of the town had some notion about him, and since the approaching bad weather had kept many people at home tonight, hardly a soul seemed to notice him. It felt very strange, like living a scene from someone else's life.  
He thought about what he would say to Frollo. Even in his imagination, the man was threatening.

When he arrived at the jail, it was beginning to snow.

Quasimodo had been there often enough that the security guards knew who he was. There were a few who had only met him once, when he had first come to visit Frollo. He had been an utter nervous wreck that day, and he had a sneaking suspicious that they'd mistaken his nervousness for some kind of mental delay.  
At any rate, the one on desk today spoke to him as if he were about four, and seemed surprised when Quasimodo replied as an adult might. Quasimodo, guiltily, wished that asking to see prisoner 26 (M. Claude Frollo) were a more difficult process, just so that he could prove he was mentally capable of it. He was taken to the room with the glass visiting booths and given a seat, and after a minute or so, Frollo was brought to the other side.  
The man looked even worse than the last time Quasimodo had visited. His hair was rapidly thinning, going more and more grey as it receded, and there were deep hollows under his eyes. He was thin and pale. His expression was cold, almost dead.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Quasimodo looked into Frollo's black eyes, and tried not to flinch. It was harder than it had been last time. He felt as though he'd lost the upper hand- now he was asking Frollo for something, something he felt certain he would not receive. "Look," he said, repeating the words he had rehearsed along the way, "I know you don't care about me. You only took me in because she would have wanted you to."

Frollo said nothing, made no attempt to deny the truth of the statement, though he thought he saw a slight flinch at the mention of _her_.  
Quasimodo had never laboured under the delusion that Frollo loved him deeply. But the truth of the matter, that only some small loyalty to his wife had kept Frollo from abandoning him utterly (or worse), had been sinking in gradually for years. This was the first time he had expressed it aloud.

"So," he continued, preparing himself for disappointment. "could I at least know something about the woman to whom I owe my life?"

He had only asked Frollo once before, at the age of about 9. Frollo had been so furious that Quasimodo had not dared to speak to him for the next week. Frollo hadn't deigned to start any conversations either and that week of strained silence, equal parts anger and fear, was still clear in his memory.

"You owe her more than your life," said Frollo, abruptly, and his cold tone seemed to disguise an ancient anger that boiled. "She was worth twelve of you."  
Quasimodo paused, taken aback. Frollo had never spoken positively of her. And now…

He looked at the old man, and was suddenly angry. "So what, you blame me? Because she died?" He knew it was true; he'd known it for years, and suddenly it was illogical and maddening and he could finally appreciate the true, bitter unfairness of it all.

"_You_," hissed Frollo, "are her with none of the good; you're a- an error- You-"

"And you are a selfish bastard," said Quasimodo, interrupting him. It did not occur to him until some time later that he had stolen those words almost directly from Laverne's mouth. He felt as if something brittle inside him had finally snapped. "You like logic, sir- How is it logical to blame an _infant_? Or- for that matter- to blame anyone for what they can't help?" He gestured at his own face. "You think I _chose_ this? To take her life and to- to condemn myself a life of inspiring _pity_, and-and _fear_?"

Quasimodo's eyes stung, and he was out of breath. Frollo looked at him, his expression completely unreadable, and for several seconds neither of them said anything.

"What you just did was very like her," said Frollo, at last. He seemed to have managed to calm himself, at least outwardly.

"I don't even know her _name_," Quasimodo implored, looking up at Frollo with accusing eyes.

Another brief silence. "Nadia," said Frollo, "She was born in Italy."

Well, it was a start. "What was she like?" he asked, praying that this was not going too fast or too far.  
"Over-emotional," said Frollo, without the barest hint of a smile. "A Gypsy. Superstitious and irrational."

"Now you're just spouting stereotypes," said Quasimodo, disappointed. "I know she was Romany; you don't have to convince me she was a fortune-teller."

"No, she wasn't a fortune-teller," he admitted, though he still seemed to be reproaching her memory, "but she wore that stupid earring and the rest of it."  
Quasimodo thought briefly of Phoebus, whose ear was probably getting infected by now.

"She was admittedly uncommonly beautiful," Frollo added, looking thoughtful.

"I must have come as a shock, then," said Quasimodo, remembering slightly too late that Frollo did not laugh at jokes.

"You did," said Frollo, stone-faced. "Though apparently not to her. Perhaps the Gypsies have some folklore way of knowing when children will turn out bad."

Quasimodo ignored the barb utterly. "So she did know."

"Yes."

He paused for a moment, taking it in. There were still many things he wanted to

know, but one question burnt. "Did she-" he felt more foolish now than ever; he could hardly believe he was speaking to Frollo about this. He hadn't mentioned to anyone yet, not Victor or Hugo, not Esme, not even Laverne. It was frightening to be so vulnerable to him. "Was she okay with it?"

Frollo sneered, and suddenly seemed like he was a Vice Principal again, irritable and demanding. It was robotic, almost reflexive. "Okay with it? What in God's name are you trying to articulate; was she _okay _with it?"

"I mean," said Quasimodo, grasping for words, "Do you think she could have accepted it?"

He felt utterly raw. Being honest, completely honest, was more difficult than he had imagined.

Frollo dropped the reprimanding tone, but was still shut off, dark, strange. "_She_ didn't care. She was _mad_. She thought you looked like your-"

He stopped abruptly, drawing in a small breath. His eyes became like river-stones, cold, hard and depthless.

That had been another question that had branded itself into Quasimodo's mind, but he had known better than to ask. Now he was sorely tempted.

_Who was my father?_

Frollo was silent. He barely seemed to be breathing.

Enough, Quasimodo decided, that I know she still wanted me. There were still things he needed to know for the project, but he would have to ask safer questions. He cleared his throat, shifting the subject to something that would be less painful to Frollo. "Er- I have this religion project. It's about my early childhood."

Frollo's silence seemed to be saying, why do I care?

"I thought you might know," Quasimodo continued, and somehow, after such an emotionally charged conversation, it felt incredibly awkward. "What was my first word?

There was a long moment of silence, in which Frollo's look became still harder. "Get out," he said at last.

"What?" said Quasimodo. The abrupt dismissal had shocked him.

"Go; get out of here. I've had enough of you."

The boy blinked. It seemed ridiculous that he was being pushed aside now, just as he was making an effort to ask easy questions. Frollo was doing it on purpose, just to be difficult. "You're in prison. Who else are you going to talk to?"

Frollo scowled, and resolutely said nothing.

Quasimodo took a deep breath, deciding that he would not give Frollo the satisfaction of getting angry again. He wasn't going to find out anything more tonight. "Alright, sir, I'll go."

"Good," said Frollo.

Quasimodo shook his head, feeling as if he was being forced to deal with things well beyond him, and got up to leave.

Just outside the visiting room, an officer was waiting for him. Quasimodo doubted that this was regular practise; more likely, their case was the most interesting thing that had happened here in a long time, and they all wanted to get a good look at him. "Okay, we're done," he said, and left as calmly as he could.

* * *

There you are. More coming soon.

-Mostly harmless.


	16. Chapter 16

More, because you've all been so patient.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

16

Laverne was readying supper just as he returned. When she heard his distinctive footfalls on the steps, she prepared herself to be annoyed with him for leaving a note rather than waiting to ask her, and for insisting on visiting the old fool in the first place. But when Quasimodo opened the door, brushing snow off the jacket she had modified for him, she saw his face and the anger drained out of her. He was a difficult child to stay mad at. He had the emotional gravity, sometimes, of a much older person. Now he looked raw and confused.

"How did it go this time?" she asked.

He hung up his coat, seemingly anxious for something to do. She could tell something major was preoccupying him. "Fine. It went fine."

Laverne was not convinced in the slightest. "I know I always say you could do anything, but don't ever decide to be an actor." She folded her arms over her chest, and repeated, "How did it go?"

Quasimodo sighed. "I… don't really know; I mean at first he was mostly just attacking me but then he started talking about her and-"

"Who?"

"My mother," said Quasimodo.

Laverne knew he didn't see her as one, but she had not realized he was still thinking about his mother. "That's what you wanted to ask him about."

"Yes," said Quasimodo, "Well, no, not exactly- I needed to know a few other things for my religion project. But I wanted to know about her too."

"What did he tell you?" asked Laverne, genuinely surprised that he'd managed to get anything out of Frollo.

Quasimodo frowned slightly, giving Laverne an unsure glance. "Her name was Nadia." He took a deep breath, and suddenly the dawn broke on his face and he was gushing, enthusiasm brimming from his words. "She was born in Italy and apparently she was really beautiful and not at all emotionally repressed like him and- and here's the big thing." He took a deep breath, beaming. "_She knew about the deformity, and she didn't care_."

Laverne thought about when she had first come, and how it had seemed so insensible to feel anything less for him than one would feel for a normal child. And yet he seemed to think his mother loving him meant the earth. "Good for her," she said, abruptly, "She had _some_ sense."

"I got that impression too," said Quasimodo, breathlessly, utterly missing the barb, "But after that he wouldn't really say anything else."

"Did you get the answers you actually needed for the project?" asked Laverne, playing the parent by trying to bring him back his schoolwork.

"Not really," said Quasimodo, shrugging dully. Then he brightened again. "Still, this is something of a breakthrough, eh?"

Laverne changed the subject. "What do you need from him for this project, anyway?" It made no sense- she had been the one who had encouraged him to ask about his mother in the first place- but it seemed strange to her that a dead woman approving of him was supposed to mean so much.

"Details of my childhood," said Quasimodo, wandering into the hallway to hang up his coat. His voice went slightly muffled as he passed behind the dividing wall. "you know, first words and stuff. I'm supposed to have photos, but I doubt there are any."

Laverne waited for several seconds to see if he would say anything else. He remained silent, and she could hear his footsteps move into the living room. She swallowed, and left the kitchen without a word. She went to what had been her bedroom for fifteen years, since she'd first begun her work here, caring for Quasimodo.

In the top shelf of her bookcase was an ancient grey three-ring binder, which she was just tall enough to be able to reach. She retrieved it, and took it to the living room.

Quasimodo was curled on the sofa, reading a book, and she came in he did not look up until she was standing directly in front of him. When he finally did so, with a polite, inquiring glance, she handed him the binder. "For your project."

He looked mystified. "Thank you."

Laverne went to eat her dinner in her own room.

* * *

Ahh, funstuff here. Things like this are always extra-touchy in families. Everyone has some kind of resentment for everyone else, and nobody realizes it untill it's too late.

-Mostly harmless.


	17. Chapter 17

A continuation of the more. On a side-note, I love Coraline. Just had to mention.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

17

Phoebus winced, his hand moving automatically to his ear. "Aah."

"Sorry," said Esmeralda, pulling her own hand away. "I guess it's still tender?"

"Extremely," said Phoebus, gingerly rubbing his earlobe as if to ensure it was still there.

Esmeralda reached out again and ran a finger very gently over the little golden hoop that hung from his left ear. "I can't believe you'd do this for me."

Behind her on the Miracle Worker Clubhouse sofa, Clopin gave him a massive wink, mouthing what looked like "Play along!"

Phoebus looked at her, biting his lip in an effort to seem like it had been his own crazy idea. "I hope you don't think it presumptuous-"

"No, no, I love it!"

He wished she'd just tell him it made him look like a complete _tête-carré _, because he knew it did. But if it made Esme happy, which it certainly seemed to… It would almost be worth it. Almost. Clopin and Quasi were still on his must-die list.

Esmeralda snuggled into his chest, emitting a little mewl of contentment. "God, I'm so lucky," she said, into his shirt, "I've got this great life and this amazing boyfriend…"

Well, thought Phoebus, when you consider the girlfriend-pleasing value, the piercing wasn't _that_ bad. At least they'd had the sense to let him be for the forty seconds in which he unconscious- being forced to endure mouth-to-mouth from either of them was a thought too painful to contemplate.

Maybe he could pass out around Esmeralda sometime, though…

And he hadn't even told her about the guitar yet.

* * *

Good old-fashioned fluff. And Clopin plays the role of matchmaker.

-Mostly harmless.


	18. Chapter 18

Rawr. I'm on a roll, to make up for previous failures.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

18

Quasimodo had never realized.

The album began with a drawing he had done at the age of six or seven, of a wizened old tree on the edge of their property that he had been able to see from his room. He could remember working on it. It was terrible by his current standards, the shaping all off, the layout clumsy and the colour scheme just wrong. He'd thrown it out in a moment of shame when he came across it at the age of about eight, though now that he viewed it objectively, it wasn't bad for a little kid. Laverne, he realized, must have fished it out of the recycling and kept it. It didn't seem like her. He turned the page.

It was a photograph. Of him.

He couldn't have been more than four. His red hair was slightly shorter than it was now, a tousled carrot-orange mess with hints of coppery gold in it. Evidently it had darkened a bit over the years. The lump over his eye was slightly more extreme than it was now.

He suddenly remembered the plastic surgery at the age of five, and how they'd cut away as much as they could and then said 'we can't do anything more'.

The one eye that was visible was bizarrely large. It was a fairly close picture, only showing the top half of his body, but he could see how much his proportions had changed. The boy in the picture was skinny and lopsided and very strange to look at. He looked up at the camera with a kind of distracted, thoughtful air, as if he didn't know what he was supposed to be doing. He was in front of the big window in the den, and through it, the winter-bare trees groaned and buckled under a thick coating of ice that gleamed in the high midday sunlight.

The caption below it read, '_Ice Storm, 1998- He spent hours just looking at the ice on the trees & wanted to go outside very badly._' it was in Laverne's handwriting.

Next, another drawing. This one was older, and less comprehensible, but he could see that it was of bells.

Now he remembered. He had been fascinated with the church bells; from the first time he had heard them, one Sunday morning when the windows were open, he had demanded to be taken to church. The Bishop at the time, who Quasimodo remembered distantly as a Santa-Clause-esque figure of utmost benevolence and kindness, had told him he could go up and have a look in the belfry after mass if he was careful. From that point on he'd been destined to become a ringer.

Apparently the entries were not in order, because there were two more drawings, their varying levels of skill reflecting his age, and one of his first English assignments with Mr. Solance. And then there was another picture.

He was more like nine in this one, still bony, but muscle was beginning to build up at his shoulders. He was looking away from the camera, obviously unaware, and his posture seemed stiff and awkward, as if he were unused to his own body. His face, the lump above one eye reduced but a faint white scar still just visible, was serious. The picture had no caption.

Then there was a sheet of paper, full of Laverne's cramped, slightly uneven writing.

_'Jan 10, 1994,_

_Still hardly making any sounds. Fine motor skills seem normal, and he watches faces, but the doctors aren't optimistic. He shows some of the symptoms of autism- quiet, does not smile often. He just watches everything._

_Feb. 18, 1994,_

_Found him looking at himself in the mirror today. Does he actually realize?_

_It's apparently very rare that physical deformities don't affect the mind. I'm frightened for him._

_May 5, 1994_

_Wonderful news! First word and second, all in one day! What a shock- he stunned me by pointing to his sweater and saying 'Blue'. Then I asked him what colour my shirt was, and he said 'Blue. Green.' It's turquoise. I am convinced he's been waiting to speak until he thought he understood better._

_June 28, 1994,_

_He's walking, well on schedule. I never thought that would happen._

_He talks much more now. Not like V&H do, but he says more 'adult' words and he knows what they mean. Dr. Robert says some children develop like that- they internalize and observe, and then they talk._

_May 2,1995,_

_Quasimodo speaks in full sentences now, and knows words no other two-year-old would know. I can't believe we ever thought he might be handicapped. He's a bit serious, but clearly very bright & the sweetest child I've ever seen. He loves to draw.'_

The journal went on for pages. Quasimodo read it all, stunned. Laverne had kept a diary of all his achievements, all the normal milestones of a young child.

Of course, they would have anticipated mental handicaps before he'd begun to speak- if one thing had gone so drastically wrong in the womb, who was to say something else wouldn't?

Laverne had kept masses of his artwork, even the really terrible stuff. _Especially_ the really terrible stuff. She also had a lot of the word he'd done over the course of his home schooling, and a handful of other pictures. They all seemed to have been taken without their subject's realization, and Quasimodo knew why; at that age he had been self-conscious and deeply shy.

Finally, there was a photocopy of his birth certificate. He had never seen the document before, and was slightly shocked to see the name 'Nadia Frollo' on it.

Beside it, listed as the father, was the name 'Pierre Querrec'.

Quasimodo spent several hours poring over the scrapbook, his mind buzzing. That Laverne, practical no-nonsense old Laverne, had recorded all of this about him, was amazing. But it did not interest him quite as much as knowing the name of his biological father.

* * *

Hee. Mini-Quasi. I hope to do a pic of him as a kid soon.

Any Ontario-Quebec Canucks reading this will remember the Ice Storm. I remember it. Just barely. Actually, being a young child, I had a really fun time.

-Mostly harmless.


	19. Chapter 19

Some more. I know you all wanted a Clopin chapter, so I oblidged.

I apologize for the limerick. I swear, it just popped into my head.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

19

She saw him on the street through the window, but when he threw open the door to the music shop, he seemed to think it would be a massive surprise. He looked as flamboyant as ever, in black leather gloves, a knee-length peacoat with what looked like a waistcoat under it, a plaid scarf, and a pair of tight, bright red pants.

"Anything new, chere?" he asked, in a big, Broadway voice, as if it were some kind of catchphrase. As he said it he struck a pose.

"It's not the 10th yet, Monsieur Clopin," she reminded him, quite coolly, "and how do you keep finding out when my shifts are?"

"I have connections," he said, crisply, making no effort to deny that he was keeping track, "and a very good memory."

"Is that synonymous for 'I'm a total creeper?'"

Clopin bowed. "A creeper is delusional. He believes he has connections, but does not. He believes he is charming and is not. And above all, it never occurs to him that he is a creeper. I have given much thought to this, and have concluded that I am not a creeper. Rather, I am diligent."

"You're weird, is what you are," she muttered.

He approached her counter, with a sly, debonair look. When he spoke next, it was in rapid, poetic French. _"M'aimeras-tu, ma belle? T'es aussi cruelle, avec tes insinuations- Tu me coupes le coeur en deux- Esque c'est ma faute si j'suis si amoureux? Que l'amour est douleureux, et violent, tout dans un instant."_

She had understood only about half of this, but she had to wonder with grudging admiration if he had made it up on the fly. "Save it," was what she said to his face, "I don't speak French."

He seemed to leap at the chance:

_"Quand je te vois, tout un coup;  
Tu me rends complétement fou;  
Avec des pensées,  
Pas anticipés,  
De ton corps, complétement nu!"_

She absorbed this for several seconds, then reached up and slapped him. "I speak it better than _that._"

"I'm sorry," said Clopin, massaging his face but not looking sorry in the slightest, "I couldn't help it. It occurred to me- you _are_ my muse, you know- and I just had to say it aloud!"

"Go write dirty limericks somewhere else, please," she said, not entirely meaning it. Clopin was… amusing, at least. He livened up the place. It got very boring working day shifts, and she'd begun to actually look forward to his visits.

"I did actually have a pretext for coming," said Clopin, folding his arms on the counter, "You wouldn't happen to have tickets to the Montréal New Years' show?"

"You _know_ those won't be available for a month," she growled, "Your type always does."

He shrugged. "I thought maybe I could charm them out of you, since you won't concede anything _else_."

"Not a chance," she replied, the haughty tilt of her chin disguising a slight smile.

He annoyed her, because he had the gall to ask for these things, and yet from his attitude it seemed like he actually got them sometimes. He could get away with things no-one else could.

But… occasional moments of perverted flirting or ticket-demanding aside, he was a decent enough guy. What was amazing, and weird, about him, was his unfailing confidence. He did whatever he wanted to, impulsive and stupid though it might be, and he cared so little about what other people thought that it was impossible not to find him at least a little charming. She wasn't sure if his confidence was a result of his talent, or vice versa. But if Clopin Trouillefou were to decide he could fly and jump off a building, he'd probably sprout wings out of sheer sureness.

"I don't suppose another hint is out of the question?" he asked her, sighing at the lost dream of illegally sold concert tickets.

"About the instrument? How many instruments can you think of that start with an A?"

He shook his head, sending his gold earring swinging. "No, no, no- about your _name_!" he cried, as if it should have been utterly obvious.

It was, admittedly, kind of sweet that he was so determined to find out her name. She wondered how long she could keep this going, before he just asked his 'connections' who she was. She grinned, teasingly, and prodded the tip of his long nose with her finger. "Not yet."

* * *

Sorry if I've made any blatant French errors. I may or may not have pirated large chunks of his french speech from Notre Dame (the musical, of course, which is $^%&# awesome for anyone who doesn't know). And no, I refuse to give you the translation. Figuring out what it means if half the fun.

Clopin is an ass. And he really, really reminds me of my friend Victor. Which is great, because it means I have a reference to work from.

Oh, and creepers are a very real phenomenon. There is at least one _per annum_ in our drama department. They sit at the back, listening to conversations but never contributing and making inappropriate advances in many forms towards the girls. The thing that seperates them from simple losers is that which makes them dangerous; _they don't realize they're creepers._

So if you don't know one, it's you.

Just kidding.

-Mostly harmless.


	20. Chapter 20

Okay, so I'm bound on two wicked awesome trips in a day or so; Toronto with a school music group, and then NYC with mah fambly. So I may not get a chance to update. So I'm doing it now. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

20

He returned to his seat, feeling stupid, holding his rolled-up poster in one hand.

"That was great," said Suzanne.

"Really?" he asked, dumbly. "I- I couldn't tell; I was really, really nervous..." His insides still felt twisted into knots and he was sure it had been obvious that his hands were shaking. Too many really's just there, he thought.

"I wouldn't have known," said Suzanne. "Either way, your family is still the only interesting one in the whole class."

He sat down, stashing the poster under his desk, and rested his chin on one hand in an effort to stabilize himself. "Nah, yours beats me by a mile." Hers had been one of the few projects that stuck out in his memory. "You know," he told her, still coming to grips with it in his mind, "I had no idea you were adopted." It was funny how you could know someone and never realize something so influential about them - that she, like him, knew no-one to whom she was genetically related.

Suzanne shrugged, glancing from the board where the next presentation was being set up, to his face. "I didn't know you were, either."

"We have that in common," said Quasimodo, letting out a long breath that bore the last of his nervousness.

"Can I see the poster?"

He nodded, handing her his rolled-up poster. Her curiosity struck him as odd, but kind of sweet- he got the sense she was interested in more than just his deformity, but rather him as a person.

Suzanne unrolled it, peering at the photos with impenetrable eyes. "Oh, you were cute."

Quasimodo followed her gaze. "You think so?" he asked, dubiously. "I've never seen such an awkward kid." He tapped the photo, and grinned. "Look at the leg length difference. I fell over a lot."

She smiled, bending over another photo. "So I guess you found pictures?"

"Yeah," he replied, "due to circumstances I would never have seen coming. It's been an interesting week."

"How so?" asked Suzanne.

Quasimodo was about to begin explaining, but a mildly reproachful "Quiet over there," from their teacher hushed him quickly. He glanced at Suzanne, the both of them slightly embarrassed at having been told off when they were usually the quiet ones.

A classmate began his presentation, obviously no more engaged himself than his audience was.

Pity. Suzanne had seemed genuinely interested. And he _wanted_ to talk about what he'd found out. Quasimodo decided to do something he wouldn't normally do. He tore a scrap of lined paper from his notebook, and wrote,

_Sorry, but what I found out was just so weird… Do you mind if I tell you?_

Surreptitiousness was not his forte, but luckily she was right beside him. He slipped the paper to her, evading notice. Suzanne read it, smiled, and replied, in her tiny, illegible handwriting,

_Please, do._

_Okay, _Quasimodo wrote back_, but it's a longish story. _

_I went and visited Frollo on Friday night to ask him questions for the project. Incidentally, he's in prison. All the rumours about 'the Frollo thing'? Regarding him, they're bang-on._

_Oh, ouch,_ she wrote back.

This was the uncomfortable part, the part that was difficult to express. But he had an idea she would understand. He continued:

_Yeah, he's an asshole. Harsh thing to say about your stepfather, but there it is. Still, I somehow managed to get him to answer a few things about my mother, since I knew next to nothing before now and it was driving me crazy. I haven't tried asking Frollo about her in about six years, because he would never have answered until now. I found out her name, and a few random tidbits about her, and something I'd actually been wondering for ages._

He paused, stuck on how to phrase it, and glanced perfunctorily at the presentation going on at the front of the room, pretending to watch it for a moment until a wording occurred to him;

_I didn't actually know how she reacted to me being deformed, or whether she was even aware of it._

_…Turns out, she knew and didn't care. I guess it doesn't really matter, but it's nice to know._

He slipped her the note, feeling stupid and as if he were confiding too much. It wasn't that he didn't trust Suzanne, but she hadn't actually asked. If she'd just been indulging him with that _please, do_ then she would find all of this deeply uncomfortable.

And yet she received the paper almost eagerly, reading it with a look of deep concentration. At the last sentence, a smile crept across her features, and she began to write furiously. Her reply, when at last he received it, said;

_It matters. Things like that do even when they logically shouldn't. Quasimodo read the note and then looked up at her. He met her eyes, and smiled, grateful. , he wrote back. Her reply seemed to take her a long time to compose:_

_I found out about my biological mother two years ago (when we finally managed to get in touch with someone in the adoption agency who had access to the records - Chinese bureaucracy is hell) and before that I didn't know if she was even still alive. As it turns out, she currently lives in Wenchuan and has a son. She wouldn't have had the resources to keep me even if the government had let her. But I'm fairly certain she wanted to. I've yet to meet a mother who doesn't adore her child, no matter the circumstances._

Quasimodo read the note and then looked up at her. He met her eyes, and smiled, grateful. 

_I suppose most adopted kids want to know about their birth parents at some point,_ he wrote back. Her reply seemed to take her a long time to compose:

_Yes, they do. It's perfectly normal, and healthy so long as you remember who your real family is.  
By the way, I'm sorry about your mother._

_Thanks,_ he scribbled_. It's too bad, really. But apparently she had her flaws, so it isn't as if things would have been perfect if she were around. _

Just as he was slipping her the page of notes, with his newest entry near the bottom, the presentation at the front of the room finished. Through scattered applause, the next student in alphabetical order took her project to the front of the class. As always, there was a brief period in which she set up her poster and the teacher finished marking the work she had just seen. Suzanne took advantage of the cessation, and smiled crookedly at him. "That's a mature way to look at it. Some people waste half their lives with what-ifs, and they have no idea how to let go."

Frollo, thought Quasimodo, that's what Frollo's problem is. "You should be a Psychiatrist," he told her.

The black-haired girl grinned, her eyes squeezing almost shut. A moment ago she had looked more adult than teenaged, but now she was fifteen again. "Funny you should say that. I'm an Art Psychiatrist."

He had no idea what Art Psychiatry would entail, but it struck him as a very good concept. "Art Psychiatry? Do tell."

She shrugged her delicate shoulders. "I'm not entirely sure, since I made it up and the concepts keep changing. But I like to study people, through art."

"Wow," said Quasimodo, wondering when this quiet girl would stop surprising him, "sign me up."

* * *

I feel kind of guilty. I had to interrogate my Chinese friend for details about Suzanne and she doesn't know that Suzanne is physically based on her. Eheh.

Bizarre fact- among my group of friends, I'm the only wasp. All the rest are East or South Asian, Polish, or Arabic. Cool, eh?

-Mostly harmless.


	21. Chapter 21

Ah, Starbucks. It is the hub of teenage existance.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

21

They'd agreed to meet up at Starbucks. Esmeralda had promised to come early, but she wasn't here yet. The three boys were getting a lot of odd looks, for three good reasons; Quasimodo's deformity, Phoebus's dog, and Clopin's pants.

In public, Quasi was sheepish but increasingly unwilling to hide. Having him around was useful; everyone seemed so concerned with being sensitive and politically correct that they found they could get away with almost anything. Phoebus was taking advantage of this. In no other company could he have gotten Achilles, the world's largest dog, into a tiny, somewhat crowded café with a strict no-pets policy. Phoebus himself was slightly embarrassed by how against-the-rules this was, but Clopin lived to break rules and Quasi was too fond of the dog to care, so he would have to keep quiet.

Clopin, of course, could not stand to be upstaged. And so he was wearing the most ridiculous pants the world had ever seen. They were tight, and made of corduroy, and the entire right leg was bright purple, the left canary yellow.

"It can be safely said that those are the stupidest pants in creation," said Phoebus, impressed, as they returned from the front counter with hot beverages to ward off the cold outside. "Where'd you get them?"

"Made them," Clopin replied, looking deeply pleased with himself. "Jealous?"

"Oh, yes. I've always dreamed of reaching a _ten_ on the tacky scale," said Phoebus, as Quasimodo snorted into his tea.

Clopin narrowed his eyes, making a sour face. His puppet emerged from a coat pocket and made a not-so-subtle attempt to steal Phoebus's coffee.

"Where's Esmeralda?" asked Quasimodo.

"Dead. I killed her. She insulted the pants."

"Shut up, Clopin," said Phoebus, frowning. He was annoyed enough at her not to be amused. "I told her ten o'clock; I'm not sure where she is."

"Ah, she'll show," said Clopin, twiddling his fingers to make the puppet shrug. "Pas d'hurry."

Phoebus knew Clopin had known Esme far longer than he had. Even so, he wouldn't be entirely comfortable until she was beside him. "Yeah, you're right," he conceded, leaning back in his chair. He searched for a change of topic. "Hey, have you heard about the New Years' concert in Montré al?"

It was as if someone had sent an electric shock down the two arts kids' spines. "Oh, _baby_," said Clopin, reverently.

"_Leonard Cohen_," said Quasimodo, in precisely the same tone.

"Forget Cohen, you silly Anglo! _Garou!"_

What a couple of fangirls, thought Phoebus. But he was beginning to understand the sheer idol-worship they, and the entire music department, felt for such gods. He admittedly didn't appreciate Esmeralda's habit of plastering Garou's face all over her room in poster form, but that wasn't the point. "I guess we should see if we can go, then?"

From the look Quasi and Clopin were giving him, he might have just suggested they try breathing _air_.

Phoebus chuckled uneasily, realizing where the money he'd saved for new skates would probably end up. "So we're going."

"God himself could not stop us," said Clopin.

He knew he was going to get his head cut off for asking this, but if he was going to get dragged there in two months, he wanted to know.

"Who is this Garou guy, anyway?"

And then they killed him.

* * *

I know, shameless Garou-fangirlism on my part. He's just so awesome. If you don't know him, a) For shame, and b) google him right now. This is information every HOND fan needs to know.

Cohen's pretty cool too. Garou doing Cohen songs... now that's just wicked.

-Mostly harmless.


	22. Chapter 22

Wooooot!

We just got back from our trip. Our Jazz choir went down to Toronto for a vocal festival. It was epic. And... we have been invited to NATIONALS! Yeah, so that's my exciting rant. Anyhoo, I am now bound for NYC, because life just rocks like that. There may be a bit of a chaper lag, but I'm hoping to keep caught up with the fic.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

22

The invitation was from one of her oldest friends, a fellow Rom who she'd met in grade school and hardly saw anymore, and when Esmeralda opened the e-mail she nearly exploded with glee. Her immediate action, after a few moments' fluttery, pleasant daydreaming about seeing Leila again and what she would wear, was to call Phoebus and tell him to come over immediately. He sounded tired, and a little confused, as if he'd had a bad day. She was eager to cheer him up with the news. True, they'd been an official couple for some time now, but a lot of her old friends, especially the Roma ones, who weren't all family but mostly felt that way, had yet to meet him. This would be the perfect chance to show him off a little. Nothing wrong with being proud of having a superhot boyfriend. And none of them would dare pick a bone because he was white. Esmeralda was of the strong opinion that there were not enough interracial couples, and was proud to be part of one.

She bounded upstairs, where her Dad was dozing- he worked late shifts- and woke him gently from his nap to tell him that her boyfriend was coming over for a bit. Dad had met Phoebus several times, and seemed to like him well enough, but Dad also had a strict no-boys-here-without-my-permission policy, and she intended to adhere to it. She was on thin ice after the business with the suspension at the beginning of the year, not because it had been her fault but because she hadn't told them about it until the night they'd all been arrested. She'd been too emotionally raw to hide it from them then. Her parents had been very good about it, but they'd made it clear they wanted top-notch honesty from hereon in.

Half an hour, and Phoebus arrived. Like the break of dawn, thought Esmeralda, as he greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

"Big news," she gushed, the moment he was inside.

"What?" asked Phoebus, who looked tired. She had an idea he'd had a big Calculus test today.

Esmeralda took his hand and led him over to the computer desk. Then, with her left hand still entwined in his right, she called up the invitation on the screen of her cheap, low-RAM computer with one hand. "My old girlfriend's doing a big birthday party. I thought we could go together!" As she said it, she visualized the scene; the two of them possibly the most attractive, and certainly the cutest, the sweetest, the most enviable couple in the room, dancing to the songs they liked and talking to the ones they didn't. Not getting drunk, but maybe a little tipsy. Enough to find everything funny and wonderful.

Phoebus narrowed his eyes at the invitation. He was reading the date. "Not the tenth as in December, as in Saturday, as in two days from now?" he asked, and his tone made it clear that all was not well.

"Uh," said Esmeralda. It had not occurred to her that he might be busy. _Her_ calendar had been clear, and she was busier than him, what with rehearsals for the musical and dance lessons and voice lessons and Jazz Band and everything else. All he had was football. "Is that a problem?"

"Yes," said Phoebus, tersely, "My tournament. The after-ceremony runs 'till eleven. I've _told_ you about it, Es- You were going to come, remember?"

Esme didn't remember. She could think of very little that interested her less than watching a football tournament, even if Phoebus was playing. "When was that?"

"Last week. About the same time as I told you we were meeting at Starbucks, which you _never showed up for _anyway." He let out a slow breath, scowling. "I guess you didn't hear me."

He wasn't being _fair_; shed already told him why she hadn't shown up for that. "I _didn't_ forget," she snapped, "I told you my dance teacher rescheduled our lesson. I couldn't just skip out."

"You could have at least _told _us that beforehand," said Phoebus, reprimanding, the way her father might have said it.

She snorted. "Yeah, like you're telling me beforehand about your tournament?"

"Well, I'm telling you now, aren't I? And I did tell you a week ago."

Esmeralda could feel her daydream of the party slipping away. "Can't you miss it?" she asked, desperate.

"_Miss _it?" he sputtered, "Esme, it's the tournament!"

She knew he was right, and it galled her all the more. "Fine. Go to your football game. I'm going to the party."

"You're not going to cheer me on?" asked Phoebus, his face beginning to redden.

Esmeralda crossed her arms, feeling furious. The stupid tournament was taking him away from her and now he expected her to go, to yell encouragements until she was hoarse at some safety-pad-bloated figure only identifiable as him because of the number printed on his shirt, through a game she barely understood? "It's Leila's birthday," she snapped, feeling defensive, "I haven't seen her in forever."

"Oh," said Phoebus, bristling visibly, "so I can spend three evenings seeing your concert, your play, your improv games, but when it's my football tournament suddenly you can't go because it's some girl's _birthday_?"

"I never made you come to those," said Esmeralda, "You're being stupid."

Phoebus took a long, deep breath. "Okay," he said at last, in a slightly calmer tone, "You don't want to go to the football game. Fine. But I don't think you should go to the party."

Great. So he was calming down a little, seeming like he was going to be reasonable, and then he dropped _that_ on her? "Why not?" Esmeralda demanded.

"Uh-" He seemed to be grasping for words. And then he gave up, and he was angry again. "Look, I can _tell_ what it's going to be like there; these things are always the same. Everybody'll be drunk and high and _having sex in the back-_"

The look on Esmeralda's face seemed to stop him, and there was a moment of frigid silence. A cold shock; that was what reality felt like, like being pushed into ice water. She wanted to kick his mean, possessive ass out of the house. "So that's it- you think you can't trust me not to do something _stupid _at my _Roma _party-" -at this she held up her hands, wiggling her fingers, _ooh, scary_ -"which of course _must _be full of sex and booze and crystal meth?"

"That is _not_ what I meant," said Phoebus, hotly. "All high school parties that late at night are like that. And it's not that I don't trust you, I'm just saying-" He was grasping for words again, looking for a kind way to express an unkind sentiment. "It's not exactly safe."

She knew he wasn't prejudiced. She knew. He didn't mean it as an insult to Leila, or any of her people, even though it might still feel like that. But he sounded like her _parents_, all rules and curfews and overprotective paranoia that made it seem like everyone thought she was a helpless little kid.

She folded her arms and squared her jaw. "I'm going to that party, asshole."

"I _told _you," he snapped, "two weeks ago! You weren't listening, you never are! Now I'm just trying to make sure you don't get stabbed or raped or something and _I'm _the asshole?"

Esmeralda threw his coat at him, sending a clear message just in case he was too thick to understand mere words:

"I can fucking take _care of myself!"_

* * *

Ohh, setting up a little bit of conflict...

-Mostly harmless.


	23. Chapter 23

Hello!

In NYC, coming to you live (ish) from my brother's apartment in Manhattan. Times are good. We're going to museums and so forth and having a grand time. The other day we ate the best barbeque in Harlem (ergo the best barbecue in New York). People have been really nice, too, so screw you, NY's bad reputation.

I know you all wanted this chapter. I wanted to write it, too. It's a Clopin-romp!

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

23

On the morning of December the tenth, a Saturday, Clopin woke uncharacteristically early. His parents, who owned the local cinema, had insisted he clean theatre five before he could go downtown to the music shop, but they'd promised to give him something towards buying whatever new instrument they would have in stock if he did so. Theatre five was a known disaster.

It took him two hours with a mop and bucket, half the time on his hands and knees, to get the sticky off the floor. During that time, he ran over every female name and musical instrument he could think of that started with an A. Over the course of the cleaning, aside from listening to an entire Cat Empire album at max volume and developing a painful crick in his back, he became fairly sure of what the instrument was. But he was still clueless about her name. There were too many possibilities.

He stuck the still-wet mop in the nearest broom cupboard, changed into something flashier and more eccentric, bade his parents a quick farewell, and set out. It wasn't snowing, which made an almost refreshing change, but the wind was high, and by the time Clopin reached Rue Arch-ange he was glad to get out of the cold. It was still only 9h30, with half an hour until the music store opened and mysterious Miss A took her shift, so he did a quick errand.

--

Alex almost laughed aloud when she saw him. But she wasn't willing to give him the satisfaction. She was not in a good mood this morning.

Clopin's nose was pressed against the glass like a kid outside a candy store, and frost was beginning to form from his breath. He had a pleading, puppy-dog look on his long, lean face. She hadn't been aware it was possible to make ones' eyes open _that _wide.

She rolled her eyes, and finished dusting off the countertop as she had been doing before spotting him. Then, sighing pointedly, she went over and opened the door to turn the little 'Sorry, we're closed' sign around, pretending not to see him until he actually stuck his foot in the door to prevent her from closing it.

Clopin was holding a cup of Tim Hortons coffee in one gloved hand. The other was behind his back. He smiled, an open and easy smile, as if he was just a friendly customer and not her own devilishly charming stalker. "Good morning!"

She blinked, caught off-guard. "Oh. Good morning."

"Going to let me in?" he asked, calmly and without a trace of cheek.

Now she felt downright stupid, even though she knew he'd pulled more than enough stunts to merit banning him from the store. If she'd wanted to. She shuffled aside, letting him into the warm.

Clopin looked around. "This place feels different."

"Well, we did just get-"

"Is that it?" he interrupted, frowning as his gaze drifted from one instrument to the next, "Or is it because…" He turned to her, suddenly devilish again- "-because _you_ are not yourself, eh?! WAKE UP, SLEEPYHEAD!"

Alex was willing to admit that she was still a little bleary. Mornings weren't her thing. Especially this morning, when she'd woken up late and her car hadn't been working and she'd gotten a crappy mark on her latest assignment and her little sister had borrowed her good work shirt without telling her and nothing seemed to be going right. "Go away, weirdo," she moaned.

Abruptly, the Tim Hortons cup was being forced into her face; Clopin peered at her from behind it, his face insistent. "I bought you café ."

She wrinkled her nose. The smell was so strong it made her want to gag. "I only drink green tea."

"Only?" he mused, looking puzzled, "never, you know, water? Or fruit juice? Or _milkshakes?_" Apparently, a life without milkshakes seemed to him too much to bear, because he had lowered the coffee cup and was now staring at her with a look of deep, shocked concern.

"No," grunted Alex, "Caffeine. The only caffeinated drink I drink. Green tea."

He shrugged, suddenly genial again. "I'll remember that. Well, no matter. I would have made you share it with me anyway."

"How romantic," she muttered, dripping sarcasm.

"Well," said Clopin, suddenly looking sly, "I did bring you these as well. And I think there are more than enough to share." And the hand that had been behind his back emerged, dangling a case of Timbits.

Alex didn't quite want to admit it to herself. But Timbits were one of her favourite things in the whole world.

She hesitated for a moment, resisting. But it was no good- she could smell them. A smile broke across her face.

Without a word, he opened the box and offered it to her. She reached in, chose one -chocolate, of course- and took a bite.

All the stress and frustration of the day seemed to melt with it in her mouth. She looked up at Clopin, and beamed.

There were never many customers, or things to do, this early in the morning, and so five minutes' time found the two of them sitting on the floor with their backs against the counter, nibbling on Timbits and talking.

"So?" asked Alex, confused. It was the tenth, and he hadn't said a thing about the letter A. "New shipments today. Aren't you going to ask?"

"About the new instrument?" Clopin shrugged. "I already know what it is."

"You do?"

"Sure. It's an accordion. I will buy it today, by the way."

She blinked. "You're quick."

He dipped one of the yellow cakey ones into his coffee and stuffed it into his mouth. "Fo dey fay," he slurred, around the Timbit, before swallowing and wiping his mouth delicately with a paper napkin. "But as to your name, well, I'm still quite in the dark."

She took another Timbit. They'd been enough of an offering. "It's Alexandra. But call me Alex."

He smiled. "Try dipping it in coffee, Alex."

"Blech. Can't stand coffee."

"Oh, come on." He waved the cup under her nose. "Try it. Just once. For me."

It was something about that grin. She sighed. "Okay."

Making a face of disgust that was admittedly completely exaggerated, she took a plain Timbit and dipped it once, quickly, into the coffee, as though it would bite if she touched the liquid's surface. Then, slowly, gingerly, secretly enjoying the tense anticipation on Clopin's face, she took a bite.

Hm. Not bad. Mixed with the intense, rich sweet of the doughnut, the bitter taste wasn't so strong. She chewed carefully.

"What do you think?"

Alex swallowed, and scowled. "Only with Timbits."

* * *

Clopin-fluff!

Timmie's. You yanks know what Timmies is, right? I'm in NYC right now and I've seen one or two while I've been in the U.S. (though not in the city itself). Anyway, if the phenomenon has passed you by, it's something like Starbucks in how common and how universal it is, but instead of specialized expensive frappuccinos and so forth, it's decent, cheap coffee, tea, doughnuts, breakfast food, and these little cake doughnut-hole-things called timbits. You get a case of 20 for something like $5, and they are responsible for about 70% of Canada's obesity. I'm partial to the little golden cakey ones.

Cat Empire (the group Clopin was listening to) are fun. They're funnk-jazz-hiphop. His kind of thing.

And the reason I give the time in the form 9h30 is because he's Quebecois and that's how they do it.

-Mostly Harmless.


	24. Chapter 24

Hi! Back from NYC. Wish I coulda stayed longer, but being home is nice.

Just a short little chapter for the moment. Quasi stuff.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

24

Quasimodo had decided against looking into the matter of his biological father. It tore at him to think that there was someone out there with his hair, his eyes, maybe his voice or who knew what else, and he would never know who. But reason prevailed- and Suzanne had been right. Pierre Querrec had been the sort of man married women had affairs with, and if he knew he had a son, then he certainly didn't want to know any more. Quasimodo had other things he should be thinking about. Exams were in a month and a half. Christmas was rapidly approaching. Frollo was still rotting in jail. They still had to set up a trip to Montreal for the New Years' concert. And Laverne had barely spoken to him all week.

He climbed the stairs of the belfry, and found himself grateful he was still ringing the church bells every weekend. It was something familiar, after so much had changed. And though the changes had been almost entirely for the good, he still felt himself clinging, at times, to his old, secluded life.

As the Saturday evening mass began, and he rang the first bell with almost mechanical certainty, Quasimodo dwelt on where he might have been if whatever had happened sixteen years ago had not happened. Down with the congregation, for one thing, instead of up here ringing the bells. Maybe a member of the choir. Not a hunch-backed boy with a face like a lump of clay, without a mother or father or a hope of ever having a serious relationship, still nursing the tail end of a pathetic, unrequited crush, only just brave enough to go out in public.

Then it occurred to him what Esme- or worse still, Suzanne- might have said if she saw him thinking like this, and was ashamed at being so easily beat. Sitting here angsting was not going to fix anything.

He attacked the bells with renewed vigour.

* * *

I finally address the issue of teenage angst, and why Quasi finds it annoying. In the originals- both the book, the disney, and the wicked-awesome musical- Quasi angsts a lot. He has a pretty good excuse. But I admire the way he does it, because it's never just angst- he always manages to pull meaning out of it, which is very refreshing. Just listen to the song 'Dieu que la monde est injuste' and you'll understand. It's from the musical. It's hauntingly beautiful.

-Mostly Harmless.


	25. Chapter 25

Back again, and sad that March break is almost over. Ah well.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

25

Saturday night. 80's pop blared through iPod speakers in the corner, the bass beat thudding in her ribcage. Esmeralda was dancing, with Leila and two other old buddies and a gaggle of Leila's friends who she'd never met before tonight. She was having a Good Time.

The party was _not_ as bad as he had said it would be. But it wasn't quite law-abiding either. It struck the rebellious Roma in her as a perfect balance. It was a great party. There were lots of people, lots to eat and drink, space to dance. Leila's parents were out of town, and she'd moved all the valuables out so she could clean up easy and they'd never know.

This music was _awesome_. And Leila's friends all thought she was an amazing dancer and she was having so much _fun_. She whooped, trying out a spinning jump and throwing her hands in the air.

Her landing was unsteady- her right ankle twisted slightly, throwing her off-balance, and she stumbled forward. "Wo_ah_," she grunted, and then suddenly she found it hilarious, _hilarious _that she'd stumbled like that, and she began to giggle.

One of Leila's friends, the one in the golf shirt whose name was something like Kevin, stepped forward, putting a hand on her shoulder as if to steady her. She was wearing a sleeveless top, and the touch against her bare skin gave her a strange, shivery feeling. "Hey, careful there."

"I am _not_ drunk," said Esmeralda, staunchly. Then she broke into a goofy grin. "I just can't dance."

"Yes you can," said Kevin-or-something, "I saw you. One stumble doesn't mean anything. You're the best dancer I've ever seen."

A moment ago, Leila and the gang had been very close by, but now it seemed as if the two of them, her and Kevin-or-something, were very isolated. She didn't mind. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely," said Kevin-or-something. "You're, ah, you're amazing."

She couldn't remember if Phoebus had ever mentioned her dancing. "Thanks," she said, shyly.

The boy moved a little closer. He had a narrow, attractive face, slightly stubbly, and his hair was gelled into a slight ski-jump. He was flirting with her. If Phoebus had been here, she knew exactly how he would react- body language polite but firm, and with a smile, he would subtly make it clear that she was _his _girl, no others need apply.

But Phoebus _wasn't_ here. And he didn't own her. Other guys could talk to her. She could go to parties on her own. And out of all the girls in the room he'd picked _her._

"Am... I the sexiest, too?" she asked, staring up at him, her voice low.

Kevin-or-something looked as if he couldn't believe his luck. "Definitely," he breathed, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her closer to him.

The kiss was long, much longer than she'd wanted it, and jarring. She wanted to end it after only a moment, because his tongue was in her mouth and his arm on her back felt uncomfortable and wrong and his _other_ hand was creeping towards her chest, but he kept wanting more. Finally, she broke away, grimacing, and wiped at her mouth.

She could not believe what she had just done. She turned, giving Kevin a look of disgust, and left.

* * *

Did not enjoy writing that. It might be easier if I'd ever actually been drunk.

-Mostly Harmless.


	26. Chapter 26

Hello!

Stirring up some conflict now, aren't I? Time to throw a wrench into the works.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

26

Alex had been enjoying herself, up till now.

The party had been an invitation from Clopin, a last-minute-please-be-my-date kind of offer that she hadn't minded accepting. It was the birthday of a Romany girl, not actually a relative but not unlike one. The Roma community here was so close-knit that all the Gypsies seemed to know all the other Gypsies.

It wasn't a bad party. True, some people were hammered or high or stoned, but lots of people were pretty sober, too, and none of the whacked-out kids had been too obnoxious yet. Nothing had been broken that couldn't be mended. The noise wasn't bad, and it was far enough from the center of town that no-one would care if it was. She'd been dancing with Clopin, who could dance like a demon, and then when they were both sweating and tired he'd offered to go get them each a drink. She was the designated driver for the night, but he wasn't really drinking either.

And then she saw her cousin' girlfriend, making out with some random kid she'd never seen.

The Chateaupers family was small but close-knit. She talked to her cousin on the phone three times a week. They'd been close all her life. Phoebus told her everything. When he had told her about the wonderful amazing beautiful girl he was dating, and later brought her over for dinner, Alex had been very happy for him. Esme had seemed like a great gal.

Now she looked drunk, and slutty, and she was standing there breaking Phoebus's heart while some sleazy idiot tried to feel her up. Alex felt betrayed. As she watched, Esmeralda broke away from the open-mouthed kiss, looking disoriented and miserable, and then ran away.

She tried to forget it for now, and enjoy the evening. But she was distracted the rest of the night, and when Clopin offered to leave early she sprung at the chance. When she got home, even though it was late, the first thing she did was make a phone call.

* * *

Bet you didn't expect the cousins thing. Or her being there. Ha-hah.

Clopin would dance like a demon. Again, not making this up. He, as I write him, is heavily based on someone I know.

-Mostly Harmless.


	27. Chapter 27

Hi again! Sorry about the wait, but I was at a school thing most of the weekend with no internet access. Blehh. Anyway, since i left you on a bit of a cliffhanger, here you are.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

27

She lay on her bed, crying, for a long time. Then, at last, she picked up her phone and dialled a number with shaking fingers.

"Hello?"

She'd always liked talking on the phone to Quasi. He always seemed completely at ease over a telephone line. Just hearing his voice, it would be hard to imagine what he looked like unless you knew him.

"Quasi? It's-it's Esme."

He seemed to hear the distress in her voice. "Hey- What- what's wrong?" he asked, immediately.

She swallowed. Her throat seemed to be closing up. "I- I did- something really stupid." The words weren't coming; she felt like she was choking. "Phoebus- he-"

"Okay, breathe, Esme- I'm not going anywhere- what happened?" He was trying to calm her down, but Quasi was rubbish at hiding his emotions, and she could tell he was scared. It was somehow very comforting to remember that he cared about her that much.

She took several deep, controlled breaths, the way she'd been taught for dance. It helped. "I wanted him to- to come to this party with me. He couldn't and he didn't want _me_ to go- and- he was being an overprotective asshole."

"He didn't want you to go just because _he_ couldn't?"

At least Quasi would take her side. The anger was helping her to stop crying, and she held onto it, focused on it. "Yeah- So I- I went anyway and- I was kind of drunk, I wasn't thinking-"

"Esme," said Quasimodo, sounding horrified, suspicious; "What did you _do_?"

"I-" Now he was accusing her too. "I_- _There was this- I kissed this other guy."

"Like harmless-peck kiss, or like... _kiss_ kiss?"

She couldn't help but smile, however briefly. "Like kiss kiss. Make-out kiss. And then he was getting all creepy, and-"

"Ah," said Quasimodo, "no further details necessary. _Why_ the _hell_ did you do that?" He sounded surprisingly angry. He didn't get angry often.

"I-" She floundered for an answer. "Look, it was a stupid mistake, I- Let me finish, alright?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Go ahead." He was still mad, just holding it in for the moment.

"So-" Esme swallowed again. It was like she could still taste that horrible kiss. "I started to leave. I was _going_ to tell him, I knew it was a mistake- But then before I get a chance he shows up the next morning and he's- " Oh, God, she was starting to cry again.

__

Earlier...

When he arrived at her house that morning, it seemed as though the little fight over the football tournament had never happened. His team had come in second, and he didn't seem to be able to stop talking about it. She was trying, desperately, to work out a way of telling him, but the task before her seemed impossible.

"My uncle even came for the game," Phoebus was saying, as he took his coat off. "You remember my cousin, Alex? Her dad."

Esmeralda tuned him out, and mechanically put his coat away for him. _Why_ had she done it? How was she supposed to explain this?

"Speaking of Alex," Phoebus continued, following her down the hallway to the closet, "she was at your party last night."

Esmeralda froze. There was a beat of silence. She looked at Phoebus, and suddenly his face was hard and angry and she realized in that instant that he already knew.

The penny had dropped. Suddenly he turned on her, snarling. "How long until you would have told me, eh?" The question came not from Phoebus, as she had known him, warm, charming, kind, but from something else much darker, something that frightened her deeply.

She scrambled for a response. "I was- Look, I was _going _to- I swear, I was just trying to figure out how to say it-" she couldn't meet his eyes, and she turned her face away. "I'm so sorry. I was angry at you and-"

For the first time, she became truly aware of how much bigger than her Phoebus was. He was shaking with anger. "Figuring out how to _say_ it? How _should_ you have said it- 'Hey, Phoebus, I _cheated_ on you behind your back right after I said you could _trust _me'?"

She had apologized, and meant it- what the hell else did he want? Esmeralda reared up, her voice as loud as his. "I'm sorry! I was _drunk_, okay? I wasn't thinking, it just happened!"

"That's a pretty shit excuse," said Phoebus, spitting out the words as though he could make them cut her. "I told you that fucking party would be like this-"

She did not process a thing that came into her head; She just said it, every furious word. There was a savage, sick kind of joy to it. "I didn't get drunk because of the _party_, idiot," she snarled, "I wanted to forget that I was dating a jealous prick who cares more about football than about me!"

"Oh, _I'_m a jealous prick," Phoebus echoed, saturated with sarcasm. Then he turned his back on her, grabbing his jacket from the closet, and started to leave. As his hand met the doorknob, he turned back, briefly. "You're a vicious bitch," he muttered, and then the front door opened and he disappeared

--

She gave Quasimodo a shortened version of what had happened, feeling the choke in her voice advance and recede. Throughout the story, he was quiet. When she had finished, he said; "I can't believe you'd do something like that."

"I thought-" began Esmeralda, but then she stopped herself. What had she expected him to say- 'It wasn't your fault'?

She sighed, and static crackled through the phone. "I know. It was stupid. I- it's just- Oh, _God_, he made me so mad..."

"He overreacted," said Quasimodo, "he was an idiot about it too. But you-" He seemed to be struggling for words. "I expected better."

Esmeralda, guilty and wretched, tried to shrug away the comment, rather than have to deal with what he had said. "Yeah, yeah, I know."

"I'm serious," he said, and his tone of voice was strange. "You had something amazing, and you threw it away."

No. That was it. She was ashamed to say another word to him. She felt a sob rise in her throat, and hung up.

* * *

That one was interesting to write. I like the idea of Quasi being really relaxed and comfortable over the phone.

R&R, s'il vous plait! Or s'il ne vous-plait pas! You MUST.

...Please?

-Mostly Harmless.


	28. Chapter 28

I somehow accidentally replaced this chapter with chapter 29. Problem fixéd.

Another Starbucks-centered chapter.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

28

Phoebus didn't know why he was meeting up with them. They were _her _friends. Of course they would take her side. And yet he needed to see them.

Clopin was waiting at the Starbucks when Phoebus got there. Phoebus didn't doubt that he already knew all the details. He was seated on one of the stools by the bar-style counter that overlooked the window; Phoebus took the stool next to him, glad he wouldn't have to face him the whole time.

"She was crying, you know," said Clopin, the moment he sat down. His face was unreadable. "Esmeralda doesn't cry often."

It was true. Except for certain tear-jerker movies, he had never seen her weep.

She loved sad movies. He'd never understood that.

Clopin was quiet for a moment, observing Phoebus with a hard expression. Then he said, "I am assuming you've officially broken up."

"Yes," said Phoebus, shortly, wondering why the thing about sad movies had just occurred to him like that. He'd spent the afternoon trying not to think about her, and ended up being unable to think of anything else.

"You called her a vicious bitch?" asked Clopin, raising an eyebrow, and there was a hint of threat.

"She called me a jealous prick," countered Phoebus.

"That's not as bad."

"I'm not the one who cheated," he replied, coldly.

Clopin look at Phoebus, and, without a hint of hesitation, said, "You're an asshole, you know that?"

Of course Clopin would take her side. Even though Phoebus was clearly the victim, he would still side with her. He wondered if Clopin had ever actually liked him. "Yeah, she told me," he muttered.

"You were never right for her anyway," said Clopin, after a moment's silence.

Phoebus said nothing, and glared into the depths of his coffee cup. That was just it. He _had _been right for her. He'd made a huge amount of effort to treat her as he'd felt she deserved. He'd done everything he could have done- While she had seemed to put no effort into their relationship at all. To the point of _cheating_ on him. It was her whohadn't been right for him.

Quasimodo arrived, and didn't bother ordering coffee. He came straight over, and took a seat next to Phoebus.

"You know what happened?" asked Clopin, and his voice sounded completely unfamiliar without its usual enthusiasm.

"Esmeralda called me," said Quasi.

Phoebus looked at him from the corner of his eye. He could tell by his expression that Quasi was angry, but otherwise he seemed blank. Phoebus could guess who he would blame. Everything really was a mess.

"So I guess you're on her side too," Phoebus observed, bitterly. He could imagine what the conversation was going to be like; he remembered the first time they'd met. He'd seen the other part of Quasimodo, beyond the sweet, slightly geeky bit the rest of the world was familiar with.

"I'm not on _anyone_'s side," Quasi snapped, "You're both idiots." What he was trying to say was perfectly clear; _Just because I love her, doesn't mean I'm not blaming her for this._

Phoebus stared at him, stunned.

"She may even be more to blame than you," added Quasi, "I- I don't know."

Clopin shook his head. "She was drunk."

"That's not an excuse," said Quasimodo.

His support, to Phoebus, came as an unexpected relief, and he was grateful. "No," Phoebus agreed, "Being drunk just makes it easier. You still have to want to cheat."

"Can you blame her for wanting a little independence, after what you were saying to her before?"

Phoebus laughed. It was not a laugh of humour. "She didn't want independence, she wanted revenge."

Clopin picked up his coffee and coat, stood, and looked down at Phoebus. "Okay, I'm not listening to this. À _demain_."

He left. There was a long silence, as they stared out the window at the frigid world beyond. Phoebus took tiny sips of his coffee, trying to make it last. As long as he was drinking his coffee, he had an excuse not to talk.

"What a mess," murmured Quasi.

"I know," said Phoebus, staring glumly at his coffee. "Thanks for not siding against me."

"Esme's not perfect," said Quasi

Phoebus knew what he meant; the rose-coloured lenses never lasted long. Especially after she snapped them. "Oh, I know. Well, she's open for the taking, that should make you happy. I'm certainly through with her."

Quasimodo looked at him with a mixture or horror and offence. "_Shit_, Phoebus, what's wrong with you?"

"I thought you-"

"I did. Do. That's not the point." He shook his head. "Isn't it obvious it wouldn't ever happen? It's- it's not just the deformity thing," he added, quickly, "That's part of it, because nobody's that immaterial. But Esme sees me as a child. Like a little brother."

Of course, it was true. His pragmatism could be depressing sometimes.

"And I'm far too much of a gentleman to take advantage of a girl on rebound," Quasi added, with a brief grin.

"I should hope so," said Phoebus, echoing his grin. "There is a code." For a moment, it was as if nothing had happened and they were all still friends, but the moment was brief.

More silence, and he thought about Esmeralda. Everything that was bad about her, and everything that was wonderful about her.

"You said no-one's that immaterial," said Phoebus, "but if anyone _is_, it's Esme."

"No, seriously," said Quasimodo, "Stop it."

Phoebus shrugged.

Quasi sighed into his hand. "I'm trying _reeeally _hard not to get my hopes up and you're making it _reeeally_ difficult. Anyway, you're wrong."

"Why?" asked Phoebus. He _had _only said it out of pity, and now he realised his mistake.

"Esmeralda's a saint, yeah, but she's more superficial than some," said Quasi.

"Like who?"

His brow wrinkled, as if he was thinking, but it took him only an instant to arrive at a response. "Suzanne, for example."

Phoebus caught the tiny hint of a smile that Quasi was attempting to conceal. "Who's Suzanne?" he asked, innocently.

"Girl from my art club," said Quasi, trying to seem dismissive.

Phoebus nodded. "You're probably right." He knew enough not to push it, but he was glad. He didn't want to see Quasi with Esmeralda- and it wouldn't happen anyway- but it was nice to think there was hope for the poor kid.

Quasi looked at his watch, and sighed. "I'd better go, I've got a watercolour to finish for arts class."

"Oh," said Phoebus. Right. Other people still had lives. It had seemed like in the face of such a cataclysm, everything normal would grind to a halt. But in fact he himself had a French test to study for. "Okay."

Quasi stood, slinging his coat over one hunched shoulder. "Face the music, Phoebus. Esme's your girl."

Phoebus shook his head. "Not after this," he said, but Quasimodo was already gone.

* * *

My friend said this chapter looked like the beginnings of a bro-mance. Good times.

-Mostly Harmless.


	29. Chapter 29

Short chapter here. More coming very soon.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

29

It figured things couldn't have stayed that great for that long. Esmeralda was impulsive and proud, and Phoebus was protective and arrogant, and both of them were stubborn as mules. It figured it wouldn't last. And it figured he and Clopin would both get dragged into it.

The watercolour wasn't turning out. He'd have to restart it. He wished Laverne was around, to give him useless advice about the colour scheme and nag him to do housework instead, but she was out. She always seemed to be out, recently. Whenever she _was _in the house, she didn't talk to him much.

It seemed like everyone was angry.

He wanted to talk to Suzanne.

* * *

Nothing to say for this one, except that Laverne is probably colour-blind.

-Mostly Harmless.


	30. Chapter 30

I've had this in my head a long time. Not terribly relevant, but kind of fuzzy.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

30

Phoebus managed to get through Monday and Tuesday without seeing Esmeralda more than twice. The first time was in the hallway. She had tweaked her uniform so that she looked still more provocative than usual, and she returned every fiery particle of his anger in a single glance. It was easy to hate her then.

The second time, she was coming out of the girls' bathroom, and she didn't see him. Her eyes were down, and she looked as though she'd been crying.

On Wednesday evening, Phoebus borrowed his parents' car and went down to the big mall on Rue Pont-Salut. It was crowded, even on a weeknight. He enjoyed the crowds. They made him feel as if he were part of something much bigger than himself and Esmeralda, Quasimodo, Clopin, all their little problems.

At the hub of the supermall was a kiosk Phoebus had heard about, where you could go to get gift advice. It was really just a handful of foldable tables set into a square, covered in holiday-themed tablecloths and adorned with a single, lonely-looking snowman figurine. But Phoebus was out of ideas.

He approached the counter. It was staffed by a tough-looking older woman and a squeaky-clean teenaged girl. The older woman was busy counting coins, and the young girl immediately leapt to serve him. She was a good foot shorter than him, and wore a Christmassy apron. Her nametag proclaimed her to be 'Hi, I'm Bethany'.

"Hi," said Phoebus. "Can you recommend a gift that says 'I'm sorry I took the woman of your dreams and then screwed up the relationship just as you were starting to dig another girl', but in a normal teenaged-guy kind of way?"

Bethany blinked her impossibly wide eyes.

"Preferably in blue?" he added.

The girl looked utterly stunned, and terrified. Phoebus realized he wasn't going to be getting any answers. He sighed. "Never mind."

The older woman, who looked like every scary teacher he'd ever had, put down her coins and marched over, nudging the younger one out of the way. Her name-card called her Kathleen. "Can I help you?"

"Uh..." Phoebus, feeling stupid, decided to abandon asking about Quasi's gift- he knew he'd probably just end up getting him arts stuff anyway. Now onto the big fish. "What about something that's kind of 'I'm still mad but it's Christmas so forget about it for the moment'? For a girl?"

Kathleen frowned at him. "We generally get more call for 'I love you' or 'Merry Christmas Mum'."

"Sorry," said Phoebus, shrugging, "My friends- we're in a complicated place."

"I see." She continued to frown at him, her brows nearly touching. "What about a card? You can write in it. Anything you like."

Phoebus shook his head. "I'll figure something out on my own." There was a bin on the counter collecting donations to the Salvation Army. He put in a five-dollar bill, and moved on.

* * *

YESS. I've wanted to write this scene since chapter five. I've never actually seen one of those things at all mall, but if they don't have them, they should. Inspired, I guess, by those BestBuy commercials. You know the ones.

-Mostly Harmless.


	31. Chapter 31

You guys have been waiting a while,so I thought I'd reward you.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

31

It hadn't taken Clopin long to realize that he and Phoebus had been romantically involved with one another's cousins. The absurdity of the situation would have been wonderful, had it not been the reason both he and Esmeralda were now single again.

He didn't blame Alex for telling Phoebus, any more than he blamed himself for bringing her to the party. Had he seen Phoebus cheating on Esme, he would have done the same. Or worse. Probably worse, in fact. But Clopin had sided with _his_ cousin, and Alex had sided with _her_ cousin, and they had never been properly dating in the first place, so things were off for the moment.

Clopin was surprised, therefore, when she showed up at his parents' theatre the night he was running the concession stand.

He didn't see her coming; he was busy taking an order. He just looked up and she was there.

Alex waited until the patrons had paid for their popcorn and left. Then she gave him a cheeky grin. "Can you sneak me anything?"

Clopin smiled, feeling slightly puzzled, and went along with it. He shovelled some of the hot, buttery popcorn from the popping machine into a paper bag and handed it to her over the counter. "Pour vous."

Alex took it, and fished around inside. "See, I was wondering. Why are _we _fighting because our cousins are fighting?"

Clopin opened his mouth to respond, and then realized he didn't really have an answer. "Euuh... because we chose contrary sides?" he offered, sheepishly.

Alex smiled. "It sounds stupid to you too, hmm?"

"Very," he admitted. "I miss harassing you."

"I miss having a stalker."

He wondered if this was as sincere as she got.

"And anyway," Alex continued, matter-of-factly, her words muffled by popcorn, "I've never seen Phoebus so miserable. He's been all angsty and pissed-off since he found out and it's getting annoying."

"Esme too," said Clopin. "I didn't realize you could cry that often."

"It sucks. They were so cute."

"Yeah, I know."

They both sighed. Then something occurred to Clopin, and he looked up. "You said you missed being stalked?"

Alex leaned on the snack counter, resting her elbows on its surface. "The music place is _boring_ without you. I hate to say it, but it's true." She ran a hand through her chocolate-brown hair, her eyes unfocused, gazing off somewhere. "Anyway, I don't get why we can't hang out just because they hate each other. It's almost like cultural segregation. You know. It's like white people versus Gypsies, and I don't like it."

"You're right," said Clopin, catching on. "We should bridge the gap. Interracial relations. Stuff like that."

Alex leaned in closer to him over the counter. "Exactly."

Clopin had gotten into trouble for first-basing behind the popcorn counter twice before, but this time, in his opinion, was by far the most worthwhile.

* * *

GO CLOPIN! *Cheers* Shakespeare-esque (not that I am otherwise comparing myself to the Bard), I am coupling everyone off in contrasting pairs. Yay.

-Mostly Harmless.


	32. Chapter 32

More fuzzy.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

32

Suzanne made sure she arrived at arts club just after Quasimodo did, so she could sit beside him without looking like she was making a conscious effort to sit beside him.

As she sat down, he looked over at her and smiled. "Hey, Suzy." There was a cheeky hint in that smile, as if he _knew _only her father got away with calling her Suzy. She wondered if she could get him one back. "Hey, stumpy," she replied, employing one of the nicknames she had heard Clopin use for him.

He put down his paintbrush and turned in his seat to face her completely, his teasing grin widening. "You know you're in trouble when a twinkie calls you short."

"Ouch," said Suzanne, snickering, "my heart is bleeding. And so are my eyes. They just saw your face. Oh, snap."

Quasimodo started to laugh aloud. "Only you, Suzy."

"Only I could get away with something _that_ offensive?"

"No, that _corny_."

Suzanne shrugged. "It's a gift. The corniness. It comes naturally to me." She cast around for a good example. "What did Elmer Fudd say to his wife when he ran away with a seamstress?"

Quasimodo winced. "Oh dear. Though I may be endangering the future of mankind by saying this...What?"

Suzanne prepared herself for the groans, and took a deep breath. "_I'm weaving you_!"

"Uhhhghgh..." he buried his face is his hands. "You're worse than Mr. Cummings."

"Actually, that's where I got that joke." She could feel her face flushing. This was embarrassing and fun at the same time. "What's the least probable sentence in the English language?"

Quasimodo punched the air. "Oh, I know that one! _The banjo player's Porsche has arrived!_"

Giggling at a bad joke she'd already heard, she wondered why conversations with her friends were never like this. It was amazing that she felt so at ease around a guy who would make some people so uncomfortable. "What are you working on today?"

"Watercolour." He held it out for her to see; it was half-finished, and depicted a small, sunlit stream with a rocky bed. At a point near the center of the frame, the stream met with several large rocks and divided in two.

Suzanne frowned at it for a moment, taking in every finely-crafted detail. He had a real way with light and shadow. "Beautiful, as usual."

Quasimodo smiled, his eyes down, and flushed slightly pink. "Thanks. This one's been giving me trouble."

"What's that?" asked Suzanne, intrigued. Now that she looked, there was something in the strokes he'd used to define the myriad surfaces of each ripple- they were jagged, frustrated.

"Stuff... going on- I- I couldn't focus. I had to scrap two attempts." He shrugged, looking downcast.

"Well, I like this copy." She peered at the unfinished side of the painting, the part where the stream had not yet diverged. Yes, there were a few possible meanings there. Suzanne licked her lips and pointed to a vague pencil guiding outline that could have been a number of things. "If that's a fish- then it means a decision. Unless it's the stream itself that's important. Then it's like being torn between two opinions."

Quasimodo blinked, looking stunned, and then he smiled. "I - I haven't decided yet. Would a fish be too blatant?"

She was completely flattered, that _he _would ask _her _artistic opinion, but she managed not to lose her head. He'd asked her a question, and she wanted to respond intelligently. "Well, that'd make it a choice between two paths, and for that, the crossroads imagery is really more definitive and vivid. Making the piece- well, not superfluous, but unnecessary. With just the stream, it's like you're being divided in two. Different, and subtler. Still, you need a second focal point. How about a tall grass, growing right here?" She tapped a slightly empty-looking patch of bank next to the undivided portion of the stream.

He looked up at her, frowning. "But wouldn't that confuse the metaphor? What does the grass represent?"

Suzanne's instant reaction would have been to agree with him, but she paused, thinking. "Well. New growth, usually."

Quasimodo tapped the proposed location of the grass. "But- but if it's before the stream breaks, that'd make it old growth. And I can't turn it brown, or move it over to the broken section, or it- it'll mess up the spacing and attract too much attention."

She thought about it. He might have been right; the confines of the frame prevented putting the grass above the break in the river; it would look too cluttered. Then she looked at it from a different angle, and noticed something. "Which way is the stream flowing?"

"Huh." Quasimodo tilted his head, peering intently at the image. "Of course I originally intended it to flow right from left and divide once it meets the rocks, but..."

"If you look at it from over here..." added Suzanne, helpfully.

Light dawned on his face. "A convergence, and _then _new growth. I get it. So the viewer can interpret it as they like."

She probably couldn't have put it that well, and was glad he'd understood without her having to explain. "Yep."

"I like it. I mean, a lot of this is- is probably arbitrary; the grass will just look like background detail and it doesn't have to signify anything..." Quasimodo rubbed the back of his neck, turning slightly pink and sheepish again. "Not everybody's as good at this as you." He bent quickly over the drawing, hiding that faint blush, and sketched in the basic shape of a thick clump of long rush-grass.

Other people were trickling into the room. Suzanne realized that she didn't have much longer to talk to him one-on-one. She felt bold, and certain of herself. It was a strange feeling. "What are you torn and in two minds over, anyway?"

He looked up. "Well, the stream's not just _me_, exactly-" he bit his lip, and looked around the room. Most of the club had arrived by now. "One second. I should do something quick, and then I'll tell you."

He got up, and limped to the front of the class. She'd seen him do presentations in Religion class, and now she could tell he was nervous by his body language, the way he didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. He cleared his throat and addressed the entire room. "Uh. Okay. Well, since this is the last meeting before the holidays, I- I wanted to say, thanks, everybody, for being a part of the club. We've had a pretty good run so far- well, I've enjoyed it, I hope you have."

There were murmurs of agreement all around the class. A few people whooped. Suzanne joined in with a "Way to go, Quasi!"

A few seats away, Sidney, a skinny, usually timid boy with thick-framed glasses who was a friend of Quasimodo and an acquaintance of hers, caught her attention with a slight wave. Then he nodded in the direction of Quasimodo, and gave her a strange, questioning smile.

Suzanne felt her face heat up, and she looked away rather than have to respond with a gesture. No-one else seemed to have been paying attention to the silent exchange. Good thing Sid could be trusted not to spread things around.

At the front, Quasimodo was moving to a long table, on which had been laid out spools of silver and gold wire, pliers, jars of glass bead, and a wide dish filled with what looked like hundreds of shards of multicoloured glass. "So today you can keep working on whatever project you're on, or you can try out making a stained-glass Christmas tree ornament. It's already drilled and sanded smooth, so if anyone manages to cut off a thumb... well, I'll be impressed. At the end of class, leave anything you want to see displayed at the Christmas assembly on the back counter over there. The arts teachers will look at them and pick a couple to display on Monday. Oh, and for the love of Pete don't put your work on top of anyone else's wet or smudge-able paintings. Right." He grinned, and gave the class a small wave. "That's all."

Suzanne packed up the poor attempt at a pencil-crayon tree-frog sketch, and moved to an empty seat at the stained-glass table. In a moment, after safely stowing his watercolour and pencils in a leather portfolio, Quasimodo took the seat beside her. He started to unwind the spool of wire, and cut off a medium length with a pair of pliers.

Suzanne, who had never done this before, followed his example. "So what does the stream represent, if it's not just you?"

Quasimodo sighed. "A mess, is what." The wire twisted three times through the small hole drilled into a fiery orange piece of glass. "You know how me and Esmeralda and Clopin and Phoebus are kind of our own little group?"

"Oh, yes," said Suzanne. She knew, all right. There had been moments where she thought she would have done anything to be a part of that group. Her fingers were clumsy and ineffectual against the thick wire; she had no idea how he could manipulate it so smoothly.

"And you know how Esme and Phoebus were an item?"

His use of the word 'were' tipped her off immediately, and Suzanne gasped. "No! They didn't-"

Quasimodo nodded soberly, his lips thinning. "They were fighting about something, Esme kissed a random guy at a party, Phoebus found out and blew his top."

It was a horrific thought, made worse by how suddenly she was learning about it. Notre Dame's perfect couple- how had she not known? Poor Esmeralda. Poor Phoebus. "God, that _sucks_," said Suzanne, with feeling.

Quasimodo looked at her with wide eyes, and bit his lip. "Please don't tell anyone."

She wanted him to know that she was trustworthy. "You have my word."

"Thanks," said Quasimodo, looking relieved, "A lot of people already know, but they haven't given me permission to tell anyone. I didn't even have the right to tell _you_, but I need your advice."

Suzanne's heart leapt into her mouth. "Y- you do?"

"Yeah." He slumped in his chair. There was a piece of green glass in his hand, and he ran his thumb along its sanded-smooth edge, over and over. "Them breaking up kind of broke up the group, too. Clopin's on Esme's side, of course."

"Whose side are you on?"

"I don't _know_," said Quasimodo, miserably, dropping his chin onto his arm. "At first I was leaning towards Phoebus, 'cause it was Esme that screwed it up, but now I'm not sure. I know she's sorry. I've never seen her so unhappy."

He paused, shaking his head. "Laverne's not talking to me right now for some reason, either..." He swallowed. "It's like I'm stuck in the middle of this gigantic fight and I have no idea what to do."

"Laverne?" asked Suzanne. "That's your adoptive mother, right?"

Quasimodo shrugged. "I guess so. I never quite thought of her as my mother. She's just... _Laverne_."

"And she's not talking to you?"

He shook his head. "I think she's angry about something. But I have no idea what."

Suzanne had gone through that phase of being desperate to find out about her birth parents. She had made this mistake, and seen the consequences. It surprised her that he hadn't thought of it already. "Ever occur to you she might be feeling resentful?"

He frowned, puzzled. "Why?"

_Come on, Quasi, you're brighter than that. _"Think about it," said Suzanne, "You've been worrying a lot about your genetic mother. That's normal. But from her perspective- it's like you care so much about this woman you never met that you're taking _her _completely for granted."

Quasimodo looked appalled. "I don't take her for granted."

"I know _you_ don't think like that," she assured him. It was hard to explain this; she felt like she was about to insult him, like she was being too harsh. What she did not want to do was hurt his feelings. But she had _been _there. She wanted to offer some meaningful piece of counsel, something that would actually help him. She wanted to say something that would make him think she was wise, gave good advice, respected him.

"But to her- I mean, you said in the religion presentation _she _was the one who raised you, but you don't call her Mom, and you know _she _doesn't care what you look like, but you get all excited when you find out your birth mother didn't?"

Quasimodo looked shocked. He was silent.

Suzanne continued; "Then again, she knows it's important... She probably feels a bit guilty for being angry at you, which is why she's avoiding you rather than telling you off."

There was a moment of stillness. Then he blinked, several times, and said, "Wow."

The embarrassment hit her like a wave, and it occurred to her that talking psychology and feelings probably wasn't something most teenagers did unless they were flaky nut-bars. Her friends certainly would have thought she was crazy. Damn it. She was doomed to either being cripplingly awkward around guys her own age, or cripplingly weird. She looked down, trying half-heartedly to conceal the rising flush in her cheeks, and let out a small, pathetic laugh. "Jeez, I must sound like a lunatic."

"N-no," said Quasimodo, "That was remarkable. You're absolutely right, and you've never even met her."

It was that damn stutter. Suzanne looked up, beaming. Maybe Psychology wasn't typical for teenagers- but neither was he. She had actually been able to help; she felt elated.

The arts meeting went on. He showed her how to wind wire around the glass so that it looked like vines of ivy. She made a dull pupil, she felt, but he did not seem to mind. By the time she had actually finished an ornament that was to her liking, he had already made three that were far lovelier, and there were about five minutes to go in the meeting.

She put down her ornament, worried that if she kept trying to improve it now she would second-guess herself and ruin it. He had been a very patient teacher; she wanted nothing so much now as to repay the favour. She liked the notion that she gave good advice. It was a piece of identity that she could live with. It meant something. A definitive trait, when she herself so often felt indefinite.

People were starting to pack up their work; they'd have to leave very soon. "So you're starting to lean more towards Esmeralda's point of view?" asked Suzanne, bringing the subject back to their conflict.

"Not exactly- well-" He sighed, with a look of harassed concern. "I was too hard on her the last time we spoke. But I don't want to side against either of them."

"Of course you don't. They're your friends." She guessed that he, like her, could not imagine giving up a real friendship just because of one fight.

"Not that I'm not frustrated with all of them," said Quasimodo. "It's so _stupid. _They had so much." Suddenly there was something sad, something wistful and even slightly bitter, in his expression. Something she recognized. "I wouldn't give that up because of something like this."

Suzanne swallowed. She had not thought of it from his perspective. She knew she should have been profoundly sorry that he was being forced to watch others throw away what he would never have. But what she was feeling, right now, was a fond impatience with him; she wanted to punch him in the arm and say, 'How do _you_ know it'll never happen to you?'

She restrained herself. It would have been weird. What she said instead was, "They're too stubborn to apologize, I guess."

He shrugged. The flicker of longing was gone. "Esme seems like she feels pretty terrible..."

She thought for a moment. She thought she understood the gravity of all this; the wrong advice could ruin everything. "What about Phoebus? Is he sorry?"

Quasimodo frowned. "Last time I talked to him, he still seemed angry."

She felt like she was letting him down; like she should have been able to produce some piece of wisdom that would fix things, and she couldn't. Things like this made sense in her head, but who was to say that would work in the real world? She didn't know enough, she hadn't seen enough. She was too awkward, too artificial. She didn't know anything about real life.

Maybe if she had actually seen this kind of thing happen before...

Lightening struck. She turned to Quasi. "What happened between your mother and Frollo?"

As Quasimodo spoke, realization dawned upon his face. "They were married, and she had an affair, and then..."

"Keep going," said Suzanne.

He nodded, slowly, a light in his eyes. "She was unfaithful, and he never forgave her for it. That was what sent him over the edge. That's why he's the way he is today."

Suzanne smiled. "I don't know if that'll actually help at all, but... Talk to Phoebus."

He was beaming, now. "You're right."

They were the last two there, just as they had been the first two to arrive. She helped him pack up the stained glass, the wire, anything else that hadn't been put away, and to wipe down the paint-spattered tables. Then he put on his coat, and slung a bag over one shoulder, the three glass ornaments in one massive hand. He hesitated. "I'd better go."

"Me too," said Suzanne, disappointed.

Quasimodo paused, and looked up at her. He held out the hand with the glass ornaments, so that all three lay on his open palm. In that instant they caught the light, and looked intricate and beautiful.

He picked out the prettiest, the most delicate, of the three, and held it out, with a trace of an embarrassed smile. "This is for you. Thank you."

Suzanne had no idea what she should say. She took it from him.

It was all sea-colours, entwined with pale silver wire. Though artistically stylized, it was clearly recognizable as a fish.

She returned his smile, and watched him leave.

* * *

That was funnn. Gotta love the clueless lovebirds. They're so awkward. Of course, they're making stained glass sculptures- here I'm thinking of the stained glass mobile in the bell-tower in the Disney movie.

And, for those who don't know, 'Twinkie' means Asian on the outside, White on the inside. Figure it out yourself.

-Mostly Harmless.


	33. Chapter 33

In the words of Spongebob Squarepants...

_I'm ready! Depression! I'm ready! Depression! I'm ready! Depression!_

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

33

Esmeralda was shaken from her dreamless sleep by a soft knock on the door.

She rolled over. Her eyelids, slightly crusted with a weepy residue, opened just wide enough to let in the late afternoon light.

A tentative voice from the other side of her bedroom door: "Es?"

It was her father. Probably dinner. She had no desire to eat. "Euh. I'don'wan'dinner," she mumbled, in her sleep-groggy voice.

Irritatingly, though she'd bade him go away, her father's voice kept coming. "Clopin is here. With- Eh, that funny-looking one with the odd name- Quasimodo."

It took her a moment to decipher his meaning, and several seconds more to decide whether it was important enough to get out of bed over. She groaned, and pulled herself onto her elbows. "Clopin and Quasi- ?" she asked, dimly.

"I'll send them up," said her father.

Her father had known Clopin since their infancy. He was Clopin's mother's brother, and they were both of the same cloth as Esmeralda's grandfather- rogues, charmers, attention-seeking clowns. Quasi, he did not know so well; they'd only met on a handful of occasions. But he had Gypsy blood, was unfailingly polite, and was not a suitable candidate for boyfriend-cy, which was reason enough for Dad to be inclined to like him.

Dad had liked Phoebus, too. Sort of. It was really more of a grudging admiration, for Phoebus's ability to stand firm even under the level of interrogation and threat her father had subjected him to.

Her bedroom door opened, and her father's face - dark, unshaven, concerned - appeared briefly. Then he ducked outside, and said something to the boys in a low voice. Their reply was inaudible, but in another moment they shuffled inside. Clopin had Esmeralda's guitar tucked under an arm.

"Hey," said Esmeralda, putting on a brave face for them as she disentangled herself from the sheets and dragged herself into a sitting position. She was still wearing pyjamas, and her hair was a tangled mess, but as long as Phoebus wasn't here she didn't care if she looked like hell.

Clopin sat at the foot of her bed, and looped the guitar strap over his shoulder, cradling the guitar itself in his lap. He struck a chord.

"You're my wake-up crew?" asked Esmeralda, blearily.

"C'est ça."

Quasimodo, uncharacteristically sly, turned to Clopin. "I'm thinking… 'Everything About it is a Love Song'."

Esmeralda frowned, trying to remember what song he was referring to. From the title, it wasn't what she was in the mood for. It was a Paul Simon, she was pretty sure… Well, maybe she'd allow it. She hadn't listened to him in too long. Her soundtrack of late had been limited; there were too many love songs in the world.

Clopin returned Quasi's grin, striking two chords. "Good idea."

He began to play, the chords ringing plaintive and familiar on her beat-up but still sweet old guitar. After about four bars, Quasimodo came in with the vocal part. He sang with a kind of gentle animation, in that same pure tenor that had surprised her the day they'd first met.

__

Locked in a struggle for the right combination  
Of words in a melody line  
I took a walk along the riverbank of my imagination  
Golden clouds were shuffling the sunshine

At the first chorus, Clopin added a simple vocal harmony that she suspected he had made up on the spot. They were having fun with it. Esmeralda didn't feel like singing with them- she hadn't felt like singing in over a week- so she listened, and the song came back to her. She _had _known it. She remembered it, like an old echo of happy days gone past.

_But if I ever get back to the twentieth century  
I guess I'll have to pay off some debts  
Open the book of my vanishing memory  
With its catalogue of regrets  
Stand up for the deeds I did  
And those I didn't do  
Sit down, shut up, think about God  
And wait for the hour of my rescue_

_We don't mean to mess things up  
But mess them up we do  
And then it's "Oh, I'm sorry"  
Here's a smiling photograph of love when it was new  
At a birthday party  
Make a wish and close your eyes: surprise._

With every chord, she felt life return; that joy she had always experienced when she sang, danced, played tambourine or guitar. They had chosen their song well. The tune had a gentle, warming quality, like morning sun. And the words… they were making her think of Phoebus, yes, but of the good moments. The Halloween party, where he'd let himself be photographed in a lion costume; their dog-walks together; casual dates at the pizza place when they were both too broke for a full dinner…

He'd been a good boyfriend. She should have just gone to the stupid football game.

_Early December, and brown as a sparrow  
Frost creeping over the pond  
I shoot a thought into the future  
And it flies like an arrow  
Through my lifetime, and beyond_

By the second chorus, they had won her over. She sang with them, letting Quasimodo guide her into the melody. In lieu of her tambourine, which was in the basement, she tapped a rhythm on her knee with one hand.

_If I ever come back as a tree, or a crow  
Or even the wind-blown dust  
Find me on the ancient road in the song when the wires are hushed  
Hurry on and remember me, as I'll remember you  
Far above the golden clouds, the darkness vibrates  
The earth is blue_

_And everything about it is a love song  
Everything about it  
Everything about it is a love song  
Everything about it_

Clopin let the echoes of the final chord vibrate through the string of the guitar, until, after several seconds of near-perfect silence, they died.

Esmeralda burst into applause. "Guys, that was awesome- can we do this every morning?"

"Esme," said Quasi, gently, but with a hint of a teasing smile, "it's not morning. It's three in the afternoon."

"Yeah, yeah, smarty-pants." She gave him a light, affectionate shove. "Thanks, though."

Clopin bowed as best he could from his position seated at the foot of her bed. "Nice to see you smile again, chere."

Quasi, who had been standing during the song, sat down next to Clopin, facing her. It was a nice feeling; the three of them in a comfy little circle, just like the couch in the music room. He gave her a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry about when you called me. I was too harsh."

She immediately felt relief. She hadn't blamed him for what he'd said when they had spoken on the phone; she'd blamed herself, and knowing he felt bad about it too made things seem easier. "It's okay," she assured him. She'd probably needed to hear it anyway.

Esmeralda had an idea Clopin was getting annoyed at not knowing what they were talking about, and so she changed the topic. "So what have you guys been up to the last little while? I haven't really seen you." She looked at the guitar in Clopin's hands, and added, "I mean, aside from the serenades."

Clopin grinned his hobgoblin grin. "You would never guess."

That didn't convince her; she had known him long enough to be able to predict even his unpredictability. He was himself. He could get into trouble in a matter of seconds, no matter the situation, and out of it twice as fast. And he took delight in all things random and strange. She smirked, folding her arms, and tried to think of the sort of joke that would thrill him this much. "I'll try. You…You passed a coupon that expired in 1996?"

He shook his head. "Better."

Quasi was playing too, now. "You found the local offices of the Church of Scientology, and- and you asked them a lot of really uncomfortable questions?"

"That's a good idea, but no." Clopin was enjoying this hugely. "I'll have to remember that one. Look, here's a hint. I'm on toilet cleanup in my parents' theatre for a month." He winked. "And _only in the men's room_."

That was something to run on. "You did something at work…" Esmeralda mused, "…with a girl."

Clopin raised an eyebrow, as if to say, _go on_. "It was hot and salty. 'Nother big hint."

Quasimodo clapped a hand over his face, holding out the other hand to stop him. "Enough, you're making my brain bleed."

Suddenly Esmeralda knew. She'd heard stories of him doing this before. "Making out behind the popcorn counter, right?"

Clopin nodded, smiling an angelic smile that did not suit him at all. "See, Quasi? No innuendo intended."

"Yes it frigging was."

"It was worth it," said Clopin, looking satisfied. "Let no-one tell you white girls can't kiss."

She decided not to encourage him, and turned to Quasi. "What's new for you?"

He removed his hand from his face. "Art club had its last meeting before the holidays. I made you guys each a silly little Christmas tree ornament, except- I sort of gave Esme's away." He didn't look sorry; he was grinning. "Don't worry, I'll make you another one."  
"Ahh, okay," said Clopin. Then he nudged Quasimodo in the ribcage. "Who'd you give it to?" He asked, waggling his eyebrows.

Quasi rolled his eyes. "Why do people keep implying I have a love life when I so obviously don't?"

"Oh, come on," said Esmeralda, "tell."

He was starting to turn pink. "It's not like _that_. It's this friend from the arts club. She gives really good advice. It was an early Christmas present."

She wasn't convinced, but decided to let it alone, for now.

Quasimodo seemed eager to change the subject. "How about you? What are you planning to do?"

Esmeralda shrugged. "I'll get up, I guess-"

He shook his head. "I mean about Phoebus, Esme."  
"Oh." For a moment, Esmeralda wished he hadn't asked, because she still didn't know the answer- And then she remembered the song, and the conclusion she had been gradually inching towards ever since the party. "I think…" She sighed. "I think I'll tell him I'm sorry. It might not fix things, but at least I won't feel so damn guilty."

They smiled, and she knew she had said what they wanted to hear.

She'd probably have to start caring about football, too.

There was a heartbeat of silence, and then Clopin adjusted his hold on the guitar. "Want to do one more?"

"Hell yes," said Esmeralda.

"Your pick this time."

She tried to think of a song she had not sang in a while, something that would cheer her up as the last one had done. It came to her easily. "How about, 'Build Me Up, Buttercup'?"

"You and your Motown," said Clopin, fondly, as he struck the first chord.

* * *

The song is 'Everything About it is a Love Song', by the irrefutably excellent Paul Simon. Oh, and 'Build Me Up, Buttercup' is by the Temptations. You know the one.

Esmeralda is a big Motown fan, I've decided. Except that recently she's probably been listening to Nirvana and Tom Waits.

-Mostly Harmless.


	34. Chapter 34

Gakk. Sory, again. Craziness has been happening. Our school's improv team is now seventh best in the country, woot woot, and I've been watching man, many tournaments.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

34

Visiting hours at the prison were limited on Monday nights. 7:00 to 7:30, no exceptions. This time, Laverne dropped him off, which was just as well because it was snowing its freezing, windy head off.

When Quasimodo had gotten home on Friday night, after speaking to Suzanne, the first thing he'd done was find Laverne, wrap her without warning in a massive, back-breaking bear hug, and tell her that she was his real mother, no matter what stupid DNA had to say about it. So they were back on good terms. At first, she'd acted like he was crazy, but it was clear to him that he'd said the right thing.

This time, the guards brought him into a room that was bare but for a table with a chessboard pattern printed on it and two chairs. Apparently they were no longer worried he would actually attack Quasimodo, and so they did not need to be separated by a sheet of glass. The guards left again, and returned soon after with Frollo handcuffed between them. The younger officer undid his cuffs, and he sat in the chair opposite Quasimodo.

Frollo stared at him until the guards had left, saying nothing. When the door closed behind them, he shook his head, and said to Quasimodo in a voice that was more weary than malignant, "You are like a bad penny, boy."

"I'm not going to let you get me mad today," said Quasimodo, carefully, "I've had enough fighting for a while. And I'm not here to ask about my mother, either," he added, anticipating Frollo's next remark, "I'm past that stage. So should you be."

Frollo frowned, as confused as he was angry. "What do you mean by that?"

Quasimodo had thought very carefully about this exchange. He shifted his weight in the chair, willing his nerve to remain with him. "I mean, sir, that you're stuck in the past. History is your nightmare, and you refuse to wake up."

"James Joyce," said Frollo, his face impenetrable, "not bad."

He was distracting himself from the point by dwelling on the composition of Quasimodo's argument, so that he wouldn't have to think about the truth he could not handle. Quasimodo sighed.

"How are your marks?" Frollo asked, abruptly.

He decided not to argue. "They're… very good."

"How good?"

"My midterm average was a 96," said Quasimodo, without particular pride.

Frollo gave him a nod of grudging approval. "You're studying for exams by now, I take it."

"Yes sir," replied Quasimodo, dutifully. Never mind that exams were in over a month; he knew Frollo's standards. He had upheld them. Always, the good son.

"Good," said Frollo.

"That's another thing, sir," said Quasimodo, resuming his argument. The words of Laverne, and Suzanne, buzzed in his brain. "I know the name of my biological father. But I'm not interested in who _he_ is, because _you_ are my father. You see?"

Frollo looked affronted. "I'm not your father."

"Yes, you are," Quasimodo insisted. "We don't share blood and you haven't done the best job but you are undeniably my father." He did not pause to give Frollo an opportunity to argue. "You gave me a home, fed me, clothed me, provided me with care and education. That's what matters. See? You even ask about my grades. Never mind whatever you might think about me; by your _actions_, you are my father."

Frollo looked at Quasimodo, his eyes hard. When he did not say anything, Quasimodo resumed:

"But you're not going to admit that- Are you?- because you're still furious about something that happened more than fifteen years ago. You know, today I told a friend of mine who broke up with his girlfriend over something she did that if he didn't forgive her he'd wind up like _you_? You're full of old grudges, sir, and they're trapping you-"

Frollo held up a hand. "Enough." he said, sternly, and though all he was now was an aging convict whose life had left him behind, he had a fearful kind of authority. Then he paused, faltering, and seemed powerless once more. Hesitating, he looked down at the table, and up at Quasimodo. "Game of chess?"

After an instant of confusion, Quasimodo understood. This was his way of acknowledging what he had said, without having to admit that he was doing so. They wouldn't speak about this again. But he wasn't sending Quasimodo away, either.

He called for a guard, and asked him for a chess set. The officer returned with a cheap plastic set that was missing a pawn , but Quasimodo had a paperclip in his pocket that could assume the same basic function. They began play in silence.

Within ten minutes, Quasimodo was down a rook and one of his knights was in trouble. Frollo was merciless; his game was methodical and steady, like an engine of war.

"That was a clumsy opening," said Frollo, breaking the silence.

"I know," said Quasimodo, almost relieved, "I'm bad at chess. I haven't had much practise." He was glad they were speaking again, but he didn't want to ruin it; each word felt valuable.

Frollo stared at the board with furrowed brows. "You took out your Queenside pawn too early, effectively trapping your bishop. An amateur's mistake. Meanwhile, you castled too late. And for God's sake, boy, don't touch your rooks until at least the late mid-game."

Quasimodo followed his gaze. One of his bishops was still stuck, uselessly, behind his Queenside pawn. He'd been stupid with the rook, he knew that. Poor thing had practically committed suicide. And he still didn't entirely understand castling. "Sorry. What… what should I have done?"

"We finish the game," said Frollo, "then I'll show you."

* * *

Good old chess. The one thing they can agree on.

-Mostly Harmless.


	35. Chapter 35

Five more chappies to go!

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

35

Neither one had spoken to the other in a week. And yet throughout the school day, both slowly and inevitably gravitated towards the same conclusion; and at lunch, they went to their corner of the music room, where they would find one other.

When Phoebus arrived, the first thing he noticed was that Esmeralda was already there. The music room was otherwise empty, but for a handful of grade nines and Mr. Cummings, the music teacher. Mr. C seemed to have guessed something of what was going on, and wisely ushered them out of the room when he saw Phoebus arrive.

Esmeralda sat on their couch in the far corner, her head bowed. She did not look up, but he had no doubt she knew he was there.

He sat down on the other end of the ragged, saggy old sofa, and looked at the floor. For several long minutes neither of them said anything. Phoebus thought about all that had happened between them, from their awkward beginning when she had yelled at him in the halls back in September, to the three months they had passed together as a couple, to the past two weeks.

"I'm an idiot," said Esmeralda, aloud, breaking the strange, reciprocal stillness.

There was another brief pause. "Me too," said Phoebus.

Whole books have communicated less than those five words. He looked up at her, and for the first time in what felt like forever, their eyes met.

She smiled, the weak and weary smile of one who has made mistakes. "I'm- I'm so sorry," she said, and then fell silent, looking like a broken bird, all drawn shoulders and brittle limbs. He wondered how she had become so vulnerable. Had _he _made her this way?

Phoebus got up, and moved closer to her on the sofa. When she did not protest, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and felt her head rest against his collarbone as he drew her closer. He had missed the smell of her, a subtle, spiced fragrance tracing the clean, artless smell of soap.

There was a lot of silence, but it was a good silence. He rested his chin on her head, enjoying the feeling that he was comforting her, protecting her. She was his again. "I should have trusted you," he murmured.

"Forget about it," said Esmeralda, into his chest. The she raised her head, and looked up at him, a question in her eyes. "_Can_ we forget about it?"

That reminded him of something, and he smiled. "Yesterday Quasi told me if I didn't let it go I'd wind up like _Frollo_."

Esmeralda let out a trace of a giggle. "Ouch." The moment was over; she slid out of the embrace, so that now she could see his face. "He and Clopin played me a song about you on the weekend."

Phoebus frowned, puzzled. "About me?"

"Well. Maybe the composer didn't _know _it was about you. But I think it was."

Pure Esmeralda logic. Beautiful. Phoebus thought of something, and looked down at his hands, where faint calluses had begun to form. "Esme- speaking of music-" He hadn't played in a while; shameful; but he hadn't forgotten much- "I took up guitar about a month ago."

He had anticipated her surprise, and her joy. "You- what?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"Guitar." He held up his hands, showing her the patches of slightly thickened skin that were his badges of honour. "I haven't played as much since we- you know... But I know a couple of chords."

For a moment Esmeralda stared at him, in disbelief. Then she grabbed at his hand, desperate to touch each calloused fingertip. "Why- why didn't you tell me earlier?"

He shrugged, uneasily, embarrassed at revealing this little secret devotion to her. "It was going to be a surprise, once I got better. But that seemed like the right moment."

Esmeralda seemed to be considering something. She looked down at her hands. "Phoebus. You put a lot effort into things like this, don't you? I mean you do a lot... for me..." She sighed, chewing her lip, and her gaze fell to the floor. "I never did things like that to make sure you were happy, did I."

A small part of Phoebus wanted to take the sarcastic angle and point out _just_ how long she'd been missing that conclusion. But he squashed it. "It's okay. I was a jealous prick." He offered her a sheepish grin. "So we're even."

Esme laughed, and slipped her slim brown hand under his. "When's your next football game?"

"Not for another two months, since the season is over," said Phoebus, with a grin. He still appreciated the gesture.

* * *

Finally, when we were all getting annoyed with them being idiots.

-Mostly harmless


	36. Chapter 36

Four more, countdown time!

I apologize if this chappie appears to have ADD. I wrote it over the course of about six days.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

36

Walking through the hallways to and from the change rooms, Esmeralda could feel the revelry, the effortless joy, in the air. The last day before the holidays was a holiday in and of itself. The one-half of the school's population who had bothered to come in were making enough noise to compensate in treble for those who were missing.

In the drama room, however, an electric tension crackled through the air, as small knots of students perfected their stage make-up, ran over songs and dances, prepared themselves to perform. The Christmas assembly was always a grand affair. It took all morning; students could audition to perform in the set; and every year, the teachers prepared a special act to cap off the festivities.

Phoebus and Quasi were waiting for her, sitting cross-legged in the corner nearest the other door. "I don't think I need to tell you how beautiful you look," said Quasimodo, when she approached them.

Esmeralda did a twirl, so that the skirts of her new dance dress belled out. It was crimson, sleeveless, and fit snug to her torso but broke at the hip into long, billowing skirts. She loved the simplicity of it.

"Phoebus, on the other hand-" Quasi added, smirking at her boyfriend- "had better think up something complimentary to say within the next ten seconds."  
Phoebus, who had been tuning his guitar from a chair in the corner, threw Quasi a mutinous look, and then his gaze returned to her. He made a sheepish face. "I- it's really- uh- red. I mean- that colour, it looks really good on you."

Esmeralda wouldn't press him any further than that. Guys, other than Clopin, could not be expected to be insightful on the subject of clothing. Even Clopin's insights were usually brightly coloured and silly, and a disproportionate number of them involved tight pants or pirate hats.

The drama room door opened, letting in a brief babble of sound from the corridor, and a figure slunk inside, a figure in a purple cape with a massive hood that concealed his face. He had an accordion tucked under one arm.

"Hi, Clopin," said Phoebus.

Clopin threw down the hood, scowling. His hair was a static-y mess underneath. "How did you know it was me?"

"Who else would own a purple cape? Or a frigging accordion?"

Clopin stuck out his tongue, and started to remove the cape. He was wearing a Santa Claus coat underneath it, and as they watched he extracted a matching hat from the coat's pocket and jammed it on over the mess that was his hair. The accordion made slight wheezing noised as he moved. "Fermes-toi. Did you learn those chords I gave you?"

"How can I answer? You just told me to shut up," observed Phoebus, who was enjoying being irritating.

The other door, which led to the stage, opened slightly, and the head and scrawny neck of Mr. Cummings appeared. He, too, was wearing a Santa Claus hat. "Clopin, are you ready? We're about to start."

Clopin was MC-ing the assembly, as per tradition. He'd been doing so for the past two years. He nodded, grinning a demented grin. "Bring on the audience."

Mr. C waved him through the stage door. After a moment, they joined him, to watch from backstage. The auditorium and stage had been lavishly decorated for the occasion. Red and gold streamers crisscrossed the rafters of the high ceiling, with paper snowflakes dangled cheerily at their conjunctions. The visual arts department's work was on showcase at the back of the room, artwork in every form of media filling the many glass trophy cases that were set into the back wall.

Esmeralda loved watching Clopin in his element. Her cousin had been born to be onstage- it was there in his flamboyant clothes, his elastic body, his wide devil's grin. Waiting with him behind the drawn curtain for his cue, she could hear the muted roar of the audience, and his excitement was palpable.  
From the other side of the wings, Mr. Cummings gave him a wave to signal his cue.

"That's me," said Clopin, in a hushed voice. He adjusted his grip on eth accordion.

"Break a leg," Esmeralda replied, drawing back to watch with Phoebus and Quasi as the curtains opened.

Clopin bowed his head, still holding the accordion, and walked on, playing a simple, repeating melody that was all but lost in the sounds of the crowd. When he had reached the microphone, he stood at it and continued playing, like a lone piper but much stranger, until, out of pure fascination, the audience had quieted itself to listen to him. He waited until the only sound was the humming voice of the accordion.

Then he took the microphone from its stand and addressed the audience: "Hello Notre Dame!"

"Who does he think he is," whispered Phoebus, teasingly, "a rock star?"

"Shh," murmured Esmeralda.

Clopin began to pace comfortably across the stage, speaking in a measured, reflective voice. "Well, ladies and gents, the holidays are coming. The calendar year draws to a close, and with the winter solstice comes good cheer in the hearts of men, as we celebrate the birth of our saviour. Which," he added, with a sudden grin, "is the only reason why I am wearing this ridiculous outfit. And so, in the spirit of goodwill, I welcome you all to our humble school's 34th annual Christmas assembly!"  
People cheered, but it was a low cheer, as if they were trying to save their voices for later.

Clopin, reading from a list of acts given to him by Mr. Cummings, introduced the first act. It was a duet of Silent Night, performed by two nervous but sweet grade nine girls. The crowd, seeming to sense how self-conscious they were, whistled and thundered its appreciation.

Then Mr. Cummings came on with his cello, to do a quartet arrangement of O Holy Night with Madame Tremblay, the French teacher who also played the flute, and two piano students. Esmeralda wasn't partial to straight classical, but had to admit it was excellent. Both teachers, Mr. C especially, were beloved enough that the applause was thundering. It gave Esmeralda shivers to think that she would be onstage next.

As the audience began to quiet again, Clopin glanced towards the wings to see if she was ready. She nodded at him.

He cleared his throat into the mic, to attract their attention. "And now, a dance performance by one of our most accomplished students; a spectacular young woman who needs no introduction- La Esmeralda!"

Somehow, there was room in her head for it to occur to her that it was cute how he always referred to her as "la", like she was some exotic Queen who somehow merited being addressed with that extra article. Esmeralda crossed onto the stage, using the graceful heel-toe walk all dancers are taught for performance, and found her opening position just as the music began.

She was dancing to the Barenaked Ladies/ Sarah MacLauchlan cover of 'God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen', and part of the reason she had been so nervous was that she had hardly prepared at all. Her decision to actually participate in the assembly at all had come less than a week ago, and there hadn't been _time_. She was going to improvise. But that was one of the great things about interpretive dancing- you could improvise, without anyone knowing the difference.  
At least she knew the song quite well. She followed its tone and mood, used its shape as a structure in which she could build her own creative blend of every dance she had ever been taught. She nearly forgot that the audience was there altogether; her mind focused itself without effort, as she rode the inevitable high that came with being onstage.

She was disappointed when the song ended. She had been enjoying it. But, as she bowed and slinked offstage, giving Clopin a surreptitious low-five, she consoled herself in the fact that she would have several other acts in this show.

"Amazing," whispered Phoebus, into her ear, his breath tickling her neck.

"Clopin says we're on after one more act," said Quasi, and he cleared his throat nervously as another dance act entered the stage. They- that is, the four of them, plus a few of Esme and Clopin's more musical friends- were doing four different songs for the assembly, and Quasi was singing for most of them. Their vocal class was also performing their set at some point, including 'Bridge Over Troubled Water', which meant he would be singing his solo. It did not escape Esmeralda that he had never performed in public before. She could understand his nervousness, but she knew he was in for a pleasant surprise when he, too, discovered the glorious and terrifying rush of the stage.

"You'll be great," Esmeralda whispered to him, "We're totally ready."

And when, after what seemed like an eternity, they finally did get their first set, he was fine; the moment he opened his mouth his face calmed. They had decided that for each set they would do one contemporary Christmas song and one traditional one, and so they played 'Ring Out, Solstice Bells', and then 'Hark the Herald'. Phoebus did well on the guitar, considering he'd been playing for only a month; he couldn't do fancy finger-picking, but he could certainly follow the chords. Clopin, mercifully, had put the accordion aside, and was helping Phoebus along wit his own guitar. By the end of the second song, it was clear that Phoebus and Quasi were already enjoying themselves.

They took their bows, and the cheers of the audience rang in Esmeralda's ears.

Their next set was not until much later, so they snuck into the audience to watch the show. It was good this year. The arts department had produced a huge array of Christmas skits, songs and dances, and each performance was made ten times more enjoyable by the fact that Esmeralda knew most of the people who were onstage. This; she decided, was what school spirit was meant to be. It was like reading a yearbook that would come alive and sing to you.

Everything that was dear to her, besides her family, was here in this room. She felt infinite.

About an hour into the show, a teacher whom Esmeralda recognized from her brief stay in Quasi's art class earlier that year, came onstage with a ring of keys. She chose one, and inserted it into the keyhole of a small device to one side of the stage. As she turned it, a large projection screen lowered itself in front of the stage.  
Esme could not remember something like this happening in previous years. Interested, she leaned forward in her seat, peering over the heads of those in front of her. Someone had turned on an LCD projector; the screen now read, in an elegant, flowing font, "Art Club highlights, 2009". As she watched, the opening chords for "Kodachrome' hummed through the auditorium speakers, and the screen changed to a skilful oil pastel image of a horse's muzzle. It was a slideshow, of all the best works.

Esmeralda turned to Quasi. "Did you know about this?"

He nodded, grinning. "The teachers said we should give the non-performing extracurriculars a chance. Watch; some of these are really good."  
They were. But after a few slides, they showed one which was perhaps a cut above the rest; a minutely detailed black-and-white pencil rendering of a church bell tower. It was so precise as to look almost real. One of the church bells was visibly rougher, older and more clumsily cast than the others, and into its flank had been carved the word 'famille'.

"That one's yours," said Esme to Quasimodo, without a shadow of doubt.

Quasi was trying to scowl, and failing; a smile kept breaking through it. "They weren't supposed to use any of mine. I'm the organizer. It's not really fair." But he was plainly glad they had chosen it.

The image that followed it was a cartoon sketch of a confused-looking Chinese dragon sitting under a maple tree. Quasi laughed when he saw it. She didn't know why.

After the slideshow, there was another dance act and a skit from Monty Python. Then one of the gym teachers came onstage, carrying a fistful of athletic medals, and, slung over one shoulder, the school's athletic banner, which bore the sports team logo of the Notre Dame Avenging Angels. Esmeralda didn't generally take much interest in the sports team, but she'd always liked their sports logo; the mascot was a very cool-looking angel holding a two-handed sword, and looking good and ready to smite something.

"I think this is about us," whispered Phoebus, directly into her ear. She loved it when he did that. It was harmless, yet strangely intimate.

Clopin, once more wearing the accordion, surrendered the microphone to the gym teacher- she thought his name was Mr. Kurtz - who addressed the school. "I'd like to take this opportunity to applaud the Football team," he was saying, "Who recently came second in their regional tournament."

The crowd burst into cheers. Esmeralda leaned over to kiss Phoebus on the cheek.

Mr. Kurtz waited for the applause to dim slightly, lifting the banner aloft. "If the team wanted to come onstage at this point..."

Phoebus grinned, and Esmeralda gave him a slight shove in the direction of the stage. "You're the captain. Get up there."

The football team filed up the staircase that lead onto the stage. She was pleased to note that among all of them, Phoebus was second-tallest and definitely best-looking. Onstage, Mr. Kurtz got the team to line up, and walked down the row, giving each a firm handshake and slipping a silver medal over each head. Phoebus, as team Captain, was at the very end of the line, grinning nervously and fidgeting. Even from the distance of the stage, he kept trying to catch her eye.  
When Mr. Kurtz got to him, he draped the school banner over Phoebus's shoulders, clapped his hand in a massive handshake, and then turned to the crowd, saying, "Our team captain, Phoebus Chateaupers" Applause rang through the auditorium.

Esmeralda had seen a million athletic awards being given, but she was resolved to really, really care about this one. She whooped and catcalled, so that he would be sure to hear her.

Phoebus returned to his seat beside her in the audience, still wearing the banner. He was crimson in the face, but he looked pleased. "Think they'll let me keep the banner?"

"Probably," said Esme, who had no idea at all.

Three more acts, and then Clopin signalled to them from the stage with a gesture of the hand. Their final set was coming up. Then it would be the teacher's act, the awarding of the pins, and the vocal class would close the show with their set, inclusing 'Bridge'. She got the attention of the two boys, and they slipped from their seats to wait backstage.

For their final act, they played 'O Come Emmanuel' and then 'Fairytale of New York'. It had felt good before, and now it felt brilliant. Quasi seemed quite comfortable now. He, Clopin and her did a three-part harmony for 'O Come Emmanuel' that Clopin had worked out, and with Phoebus's simple guitar chords underneath, it sounded ethereal and magical.

'Fairytale of New York' was a very different song. Clopin sang it with Esmeralda while Quasi provided a drum rhythm, because Quasi didn't trust himself to sound effectively drunk or Irish, and Clopin was an attention whore. But they all sang the chorus, even Phoebus, and the audience laughed at the funny bits, and it was perfect.

They took their bows, for the second time that night. Then they crept back into the audience for the teacher act, Phoebus whispering to her, "Thank God that's over," in a voice that made it clear he didn't mean it.

The teacher act was long, and so funny that it made her chest ache. It was a kind of an air-band 90's mash-up, complete with extravagant costumes and canned music. She spotted dozens of teachers she knew, though it wasn't always easy to tell under the thick layers of makeup and fake hair. Mr. Cummings, as head of the arts department, presided over the whole thing; a skinny, goofy, British Father Christmas, his face hidden behind a thick white beard.

At about the time that cheering was starting to hurt her throat, the music stopped, and the last of the teachers fled the stage amid the lasting cheers. The Mr. Cummings re-entered, beardless again, and when the last of the noise had died away he took the microphone from Clopin and held up a small object, something so tiny she couldn't see what it was from her place in the audience.

"As most of you know," said Mr. Cummings, in his thick English accent, "Every month we present pins to the students who display special dedication to their extracurricular activities. Well, this time I thought we'd do the presentation of the pins a little differently. See, we've done something that hasn't been done in over six years- we've created a new pin." He held the tiny object in his hand a little higher, so that it caught the light, and Esme could see its blue colour.

She thought she knew what this was all about. She hoped she was right.

"Until this month," resumed Mr. Cummings, "there has not been an extracurricular program for visual arts. But one of our students took the bold initiative to start one, and they've been tremendously successful, as you saw from the slideshow."

Murmurs shimmered through the audience. Esmeralda knew she had been right.

"Aside from being an excellent artist himself, he has worked hard to organize the club and is singularly dedicated to the arts." Mr. Cummings grinned, and looked into the crowd in the direction of their group. "I award the first ever Visual Arts pin to Quasimodo Frollo."

Around them, students burst into applause. Quasimodo was beloved. Even those who didn't know him knew who he was, and the feeling of affection the whole school had for him had been strong ever since October.

Beside her, Quasimodo was crimson with embarrassment, or gratitude, or both. He looked as if he were trying to shrink into the floor.  
Esmeralda punched him in the arm, which felt a lot like punching a tree trunk. "Go up and get it, stupid," she said, teasingly.  
He smiled sheepishly, and got out of his seat, limping up onto the stage. Mr. Cummings shook his hand, warmly, looking like a favourite uncle, and placed the tiny blue pin in his palm.

When Quasi had returned to his seat, amid continuous applause, he attached the pin to the front of his school vest, just above the Notre Dame insignia. It depicted a paintbrush and palette.

They awarded the rest of the pins, one for every extracurricular in the school. Esmeralda didn't win any this time, but she already had two- drama and dance, from previous years, which she still wore on her vest every day. It was traditional. They were badges of honour. Clopin had at least five of them; Phoebus had two. Now Quasimodo could call himself a true Notre Damer.

She nudged him. "Now all we have left to worry about is the vocal class set."

He looked relieved. He was so flushed and embarrassed he was slightly out of breath. "Just my Bridge solo."

"You'll be great," said Esmeralda, "of course you will."

* * *

Fluffffff.

Incidentally, the song 'Fairytale of New York' is one of the best, funniest, and most bittersweet Christmas songs ever. It's by the Pogues. Look it up. The lead singer sounds hammered (and since he's Shane McGowan, he probably is).

Again, Clopin's antics were inspired by this person I know who is a clone of him. Except that it appears I'm now actually _predicting_ his actions. Today he said 'I was cold this morning, so I wore a Santa coat,'. He also mentioned the other day, _after_ I wrote about the purple/yellow pants, that he wants either a pair of bright yellow pants or a pair of bright purple pants.

...This seems all very spooky to me.

Cookies (imaginary ones) for anyone who can tell me about the picture with the Chinese dragon.

-Mostly harmless


	37. Chapter 37

Here ve go, dahlink.

You know what's amazing? Getting 14 solid hours of sleep. God, I love sleep.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

37

Getting into the school was not that difficult. Alex had graduated last year, but some of the teachers remembered her and they didn't mind an alumni stopping in to see the Christmas show.

She had come to see Clopin in his element. He'd told her about the assembly, in passing, because he knew she had gone to ND and might be interested. But he hadn't mentioned the fact that he was hosting it. She had remembered that part from last year and the year before- being impressed by the lanky, eccentric kid on the stage who despite being a year younger already had ten times her confidence.

They weren't officially dating, of course. He was too infuriating, and neither of them really had time for it anyway. But she didn't mind seeing him from time to time, especially when he brought her doughnuts.

The show was as impressive as any of the years she had seen before. Phoebus and Esmeralda were back together, thank God, and even from the stage they read clearly as a happy couple. Phoebus was learning Guitar. Esmeralda could really dance, and their friend, the deformed one who was becoming a normal sight throughout the town, had a voice like an angel. But whenever Clopin was onstage, everyone else was ignored.

His presence was electric. He seemed completely at home, and was as funny, as charming, as devilish and mad as ever she had seen him. There was more life in that elastic body and dark, attractive face than whole oceans of normal people could have hoped to contain. She felt proud to think that _she_ had sold him the accordion that he was now employing with such comedic brilliance.

She clapped and whistled at his every jibe and joke, and tried to decide how she would tell him she had come.

* * *

Just in case you were wondering why Alex doesn't go to ND...

I'd like to remind people to R&R. even if you have nothing to say, please drop me a line so I know people are still reading. To my faithful reviewers, thanks and god bless.

Oh, and yes, emo-gyspy, the chinese dragon is indeed Suzanne. ;) It expressed her confusion about her own identity.

-Mostly harmless


	38. Chapter 38

This is the big one. I wrote this the night before Easter, oddly enough.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

38

The assembly ended at noon. Quasimodo, feeling drained and giddy, followed Esme, Phoebus and Clopin to the music room, where they would do a few odd clean-up jobs and generally waste the rest of the day. Having the show over was a huge relief. He_ had_ enjoyed it - there was nothing like that feeling on earth- but it had been profoundly terrifying for him.

"Quelle spectàcle," Clopin was gushing, as he took a string of Christmas lights down from the edges of the bulletin board. "I think that may have been our best yet."

"Esme," said Phoebus, "You have got to stop dancing in public. The other guys on the football team are going to kill me. Out of envy."

Esmeralda, who was washing down the chalkboard, paused, looked over at him, and raised a brow.

There was a moment of tension. So soon after their fight, everyone was still on their toes about signs of conflict. But then Esme batted her eyelashes, smirking. "Don't pretend you don't like it."

"Okay, I like it," Phoebus admitted. "I think maybe we should learn how to tango."

She put down the washcloth, slinking seductively towards him, and put an arm around his waist. "I already know how. Want me to teach you?"

"Don't be afraid, you two," said Clopin, raising an eyebrow, "you may as well just get busy right here in the music room. It's not like we're here or anything."

Esme rolled her eyes, and they broke apart.

"Speaking of being here," said Phoebus, "My cousin Alex was in the crowd. Would that have anything to do with you, Clopin?"

Clopin's eyes went wide and innocent. "Oh, no, surely not! I don't know who you mean. Nothing to do with me!" Then he dropped the act, merely looking puzzled. "Actually, I didn't even tell her I was performing."

"What's all this about?" asked Quasimodo, as he wrestled the box that the Christmas decorations were stored in from its place above the instrument cabinets, the same space he and Esme had hidden in at the beginning of the year.

"Clopin's been stalking my cousin," said Phoebus, grinning.

Clopin stuck his tongue out. "She stalks me right back. Anyway, how'd you know about that?"

"She told me, the other day. She said, 'hey, did you know I'm being harassed by your girlfriend's cousin?"

"This is Madame Popcorn Counter, I take it," Quasimodo surmised. "What did she think of the accordion?"

He smirked. "She sold it to me."

The music room door opened, with a mechanical sound, and he glanced over to see who had come in. It was Suzanne. She had her backpack over one shoulder, and looked annoyed, though once she looked up and saw who was there, her expression brightened.

Quasimodo had been standing on a chair so that he could reach the shelf above the cabinets, and he hopped down. "Hey! I saw your picture in the slideshow!"

She broke into a broad smile. "I didn't show you that one. How did you know?"

He shrugged. "The subject matter tipped me off." Then it occurred to him that she hadn't properly met the others. They'd probably tease him about it later, but she would appreciate being introduced. "Guys, this is Suzanne. Suzy- Clopin, Esme, Phoebus." He gestured to each of them in turn, even though he knew she already knew their names.

Suzanne raised a hand, suddenly awkward, and smiled a smile that made her look as though she were in pain. "Um. Hi."

"Quasi's talked about you," said Phoebus, with a relaxed grin, trying to put her at ease.

"Really?" She asked, not quite meeting Phoebus's eyes.

Quasimodo, wishing Phoebus would stop being so charming, searched for a way to change the subject. He noticed her backpack and coat. "You heading home?"

Addressing him specifically seemed to make her more comfortable. After all, she knew him. "I was going to walk home. But then Lindsay ditched me, and the bus doesn't come 'til three."

He knew why she didn't want to walk home without her friend. The back woods were the fastest way towards most of the residential neighbourhoods, but there were stories about them. Every so often a letter would go home from the office. A lone girl in those woods was just asking for trouble.

"You can stick around here, of course," said Clopin. "We will eat, and drink, and be merry. Except for the eating and drinking, unless someone has food. In which case I want it."

She went very slightly pink. "Thank you for the offer, but- I'm so tired... I'd probably be a bit of a drag." She shrugged slightly.

Quasimodo had a feeling that she wasn't saying that because she was tired. He knew Suzanne was shy, and you had to be gently broken into personalities like Clopin's. "Wait," he said, "did you still want to go home? I don't mind walking with you."

"You couldn't be in safer company," added Esme.

Suzanne's eyes widened. "Are you- sure you don't mind?"

"'Course," said Quasimodo, "I wanted to get outside anyway. It's really nice out."

In fact, he had been looking forward to passing the afternoon as uselessly as possible, but he could always continue home after walking her back, and do some work on his newest carving. He'd see the gang the next day anyway.

Suzanne beamed. "Okay. Thanks."

He waved a goodbye to Esme, Clopin and Phoebus, and made sure to open the door for her.

They went to his locker, and he quickly gathered up everything he had to take home. Then they took the back door, onto the path that led a coherent route through the woods. It _was _lovely out. Fat snowflakes drifted down from a pallid, heavy sky, muffling all sound as they carpeted the tree branches in white.

"They all seem really nice," said Suzanne, smiling.

He loped along beside her, for once kind of enjoying the unevenness of his gait. Normally he tried to keep it even, but now he could move the way he liked. If someone were to come upon their footprints, they would see one smaller set, ordinarily spaced (thought they would turn in a little; Suzanne was slightly pigeon-toed) and one larger set, much more crooked, that favoured the right leg so much it was practically hopping. "They are," he replied, "they're great guys. Hope Clopin didn't come off too strong; he's just really, really outgoing."

"No, it wasn't that. I know what he's like." She looked down at her feet. "I just- well, I probably would have just got in the way of you guys having fun. You know, fifth wheel?"

Quasimodo had not realized quite how introverted Suzanne could be; she'd always seemed so comfortable when they talked. "That's what I always thought at first," he admitted. "They're all a bunch of crazy drama kids, right? You and me, we're shy. We're not much fun."

Suzanne nodded, making a face. All of this seemed familiar to her.

"But, I mean, they don't think that way," he resumed, "and- after you've been around them for a while, you relax, and suddenly you're not so shy."

She cocked her head, and blinked at him. "Does that actually work?"

"Yes, actually." He'd seen it- in the way he acted around Esme, Phoebus and Clopin, and in the way Suzanne acted around _him_.

"Still... I'm so awkward in situations like that." she seemed to flush slightly, though it could have been the cold. "Thanks for rescuing me."

Quasimodo smiled, and did a small, flourishing bow. "A true Gentleman never leaves a lady in discomfort," he told her, in a false English accent.

"You're a goof."

"I really am. I apologize. From now on I'll be dead boring," he teased. Teasing her was fun.

"No-one'll notice," said Suzanne, with a smirk.

"You're right." he countered, "they're used to _you_."

"Why don't you do one better and go from dead boring to just plain dead?"

"Then you'd have someone to talk to who wouldn't run away screaming."

This time Suzanne floundered for a comeback. "Uh... They only run away because I'm just so awesome I blow their minds and that's why I hang out with you, because you have no mind!"

Quasimodo raised an eyebrow at her, trying not to laugh. She was so funny when she made a fool out of herself.

"Sorry, that was lame, I know," said Suzanne, as they both failed to contain their laughter. It was one of those odd situations, where the sheer un-funniness of the thing almost made it seem funny again- but the more ridiculous thing was that Quasimodo knew neither of them would have ever said such things and meant them.

There was a brief silence. The snow was thickening, and a faint breeze had picked up. They were making slow progress, but the woods were so pretty that it hardly seemed to matter. He glanced up at the thick, claustrophobic sky, and found himself singing under his breath, a soft, cheerful melody:

_"Cloudy  
__The sky is grey and white and  
__Cloudy  
__Sometimes I think it's hanging down on me Let's hitchhike a hundred miles..."_

Just as it occurred to him that he might be annoying Suzanne, he was surprised to hear her hesitant, thin voice join him.

_"I'm a ragamuffin child  
Pointed finger, painted smile  
I left my shadow waiting down the road for me awhile  
Cloudy..."_

Quasimodo turned to Suzanne. "You know that song?"

"Simon and Garfunkel," she replied, smiling, "_Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme_. It's so... pretty." She began the next verse, her voice untrained but on-key, and he joined in.

When they had sung the whole song, they gave it a moment, and let it hang in the air. It was that kind of a song, and that kind of a day- the silences were as important as the sounds.

Finally, Suzanne said, "I'm not actually that tired... Do you... want to go into town and do something, instead?"

He wasn't expected at home for another four hours. The idea seemed appealing, especially in its spontaneity. If the guys found out they'd have a fit, but they didn't have to know. "Sure. What d'you want to do?"

She shrugged. "Well, I have a few Christmas gifts left to pick out, but that won't take long. Anything, really. We could go to Chapters, or that arts store on Rue Monique..."

Those would probably have been his first choices too. He grinned. "Cool beans."

It took longer to get into town than it would have just to get home, and as they went, the weather got progressively worse. They talked about Simon and Garfunkel, and contemporary rock groups that didn't suck, and then the art club; and by the time they were close to civilization again the previous breeze had picked up into a wet, icy wind. Suzanne was shivering visibly, and her hands were going numb from the cold, so he lent her his gloves.

As the forest began to disappear, and they arrived at the main road into town, Quasimodo glanced up at the sky. That off-white shade had darkened to grey, and the nature of the falling snow had changed; instead of individual, drifting snowflakes, there was a windswept haze of small, fast-moving particles of dry snow.

Neither of them needed to say that they would get inside at the first opportunity. He hoped Suzanne wasn't suffering too much from the cold. She was shivering, yes, but she looked perfectly happy. They were talking about school, now.

"I loved gym in grade school," Suzanne was saying, "I was all kiddy little games where being able to use your head got you more points than being able to run fast. Like cat's corner. You know, where the cat's in the middle with a blindfold and the mice each pick a corner of the room, and then the cat guesses a corner and whoever's in it is out?"

"That one's new to me," said Quasimodo.

"I figured out that the cat was least likely to pick the corner they'd just picked. So I usually won."

"I've never had a gym class in my life," Quasimodo admitted, "Laverne just used to take me to this hilly clearing in the forest that no-one else really knew about and let me do whatever. I climbed the trees."

Suzanne scowled at him. "Lucky bastard." Then she shrugged. "No, I liked elementary gym, but by 7-8 and high school it just sucked. It was all organized sports. But still, English got much more interesting in high school. We finally stopped doing grammar and got to read some actual books."

"What did you think of Romeo and Juliet?" asked Quasimodo. Romeo and Juliet was the first text grade nines would work on, and his old tutor had generally stuck so close to curriculum teaching methods that he himself had done it at about the same time she would have been.

She made a face. "Not for me. I kept thinking, 'if these two actually wind up together they'll hate each other by the end of the month'. They didn't _know _each other at all, it was entirely physical. Romeo could have been totally abusive for all she knew."

Quasimodo had really enjoyed it, and he looked at her, slightly shocked. "But- but you have to remember that their acquaintance only seems short because Shakespeare had to make it more dramatic. I always thought they knew each other better than we thought they did."

She didn't seem to want to quibble over it, and shrugged. "That's a good point."

The traffic lights finally changed, and the red 'Don't Walk' hand gave way to the walking man. "Does that guy have a real name?" asked Suzanne, as they crossed.

"The little pedestrian light man? I don't think so," said Quasimodo.

"My mom always called him Fred."

He laughed. "That is epic."

"He kind of looks like a Fred, too," added Suzanne, grinning goofily.

They were now properly in town. All around them, street lamps were hung with evergreen wreaths and trees were wrapped in Christmas lights. The parking lots were full. There was a thin layer of snow over everything. Both of them were freezing cold, and it had not needed to be discussed that they would get inside at the first opportunity. Now, Suzanne pointed to the nearest building, an old stone two-storey that had been transformed into a coffee shop and bakery. "In there?"

Quasimodo nodded, and they went in.

A little bell dinged above the door. After the cold outside, the sudden warmth seemed to burn his ears and face. They knocked some of the snow from their boots, and approached the counter. He was conscious of attracting a few stares, but not many- he was starting to become a familiar sight in town, as in the school. It wasn't enough for him to care.

Suzanne ordered hot chocolate and a brownie. He had tea and a big cookie. She was getting out her wallet when he pushed her hand aside. "My treat."

"Oh, no _way_," said Suzanne.

"Way." He gave the cashier a twenty, before Suzanne had a chance to object further.

She made an exasperated face. "Nuh-uh. Why did you do that? When can I get you back?"

"Come on, Suzy," said Quasimodo, shaking his head, "I can't help being old-fashioned. Forget about it."

The young man at the cash, who looked bemused, handed them two paper bags with still-warm baking in them, and said, "We just opened a few tables upstairs. Great view."

He turned to Suzanne, who smiled, and then said, "Sounds good. Thanks."

They got their drinks at the other end of the cash, then climbed the narrow, creaky staircase up to the newly-finished second floor.

The second floor was deserted, and Quasimodo had a sly idea the cashier had known he would prefer not to be in the public eye. It was a spartan but pleasant space, with bare brick walls, pine tables and cream-coloured upholstery, and it made him think of the upper storey of a ski chalet. There _was _a nice view; along one wall, huge bay windows looked out over the street. But everything was half-obscured by the falling snow.

"Ohh," said Suzanne, "It's cool up here."

They picked a table in the corner, directly by the window. Quasimodo took a tentative sip of his tea, which was still both too hot and too weak. "Snow really picked up fast, didn't it? Are you warm enough?"

Seated across from him, her back resting against the brick wall, Suzanne took off the gloves he had loaned her and wrapped her hands around her cup of hot chocolate. "Fine, thanks," she said, with a small smile, "It's all toasty in here. There's supposed to be a storm tonight." She gazed out the window, at the street below. They were quite high up, for the second floor- the building had high ceilings- and below them, the old architecture of the street was slowly being lost under a blanket of white. The sky blended into the horizon, grey clouds veiling everything in falling snow.

He found himself humming a few bars of 'Cloudy'.

"Just in time for Christmas," said Suzanne. "The assembly was great this year."

Being onstage had hardly seemed real. Now, it already felt like the distant past; a fond memory. He smiled. "My first. It was fun."

"Can I see the pin?" she asked.

He nodded, still embarrassed by the whole thing, and unpinned it from his vest front. Then he handed it to her.

Suzanne peered at it, holding it close to see every detail. "First visual art pin ever," she mused. Then she looked up at him, and beamed. "Nobody else even came close to deserving it. Still, I'm glad you got it."

He bit his lip, and gave her a sheepish smile. "Thanks. I feel like it's cheating, since I'm a student organizer and all-"

"No way," said Suzanne, looking almost affronted, "the whole thing was your idea. You do all the work, and you're _also _our best artist. If they'd given it to someone else I'd have mailed them a goblin."

He gave her a brief, bemused look, wondering where the heck she had gotten such a bizarre expression. Then the full extent of the compliment she had been paying him sunk in, and he felt heat rise in his face. He chuckled. "No I'm _not_, you shameless sycophant- I - I just got the process going, the art teachers do all the work."

"Hey," she snapped, pouting at him, "I am not a sycophant. I meant that."

He looked at the table-top, embarrassed. "Well, thanks."

Suzanne had started to unwrap her brownie, and now she broke a chunk off the corner. "Are you going into arts after high school? Do you know yet?"

Quasimodo shrugged. In truth, he hadn't thought much about it. "I might do Beaux-Arts at McGill."

She raised an eyebrow, teasing him again. "Whoa, Quasi, pretentious much?"

He rolled his eyes, and shook his head. "I don't know. The chances of making a career out of it are pretty slim... but on the other hand I could go around sneering with my _fake Parisian lilt-_" -he put on his best continental French accent- "- _Saying, 'Oh, Ah am ze suffering artiste, of course Ah am going to be ugly, ze truth is ugly too_-"

Suzanne had her hand over her mouth; she evidently had a mouthful of brownie which he was trying not to choke on. After several seconds of sputtering, she swallowed the mouthful, shaking with silent laughter. "You're such a- a-"

"Goof?" he offered.

Suzanne swallowed, her eyes watering slightly. "That too. I was thinking maniac."

He flashed her a suitably maniacal grin over the rim of his cup of tea, which finally tasted fully steeped. Then he set the cup down, and added milk from a little pitcher on the table. "What are you thinking you'll do? After Grade Twelve?"

"I have no idea," said Suzanne. "Maybe Psychology."

He nodded. "Definitely. You'd be great at that."

"Even if I have to lock myself up in a straightjacket?"

"Even then. You can be the female Hannibal Lector."

"Oh-_ho_," said Suzanne, looking sky, "are you one of those psych.-thriller-movie guys?"

Quasimodo made a face. "No, not really. I'm a wimp. I'm into, like, the old body horror stuff. George C. Romero. David Cronenberg if I'm feeling brave."

Suzanne snorted. "Body horror? Well that's psychologically telling."

"I know, eh? I'm an emotional train wreck. If it's got freaky-looking people in it, I'll watch it."

"You seen _The Fly_?"

He nodded. "Scared the shit out of me. I'm better at RomZomComs."

"What is that?" she asked, frowning.

"Romantic _Zombie Comedy_," explained Quasimodo, with relish.

It earned an incredulous laugh from Suzanne. "That's pretty strange."

He was about to respond, but a sudden howl of wind from outside silenced him. Wide-eyed, he looked out the window into the windblown snow outside.

"It's getting really bad," said Suzanne. "I hope we can get home."

She didn't look all that worried, but all the same, he wanted to reassure her. "Don't worry, we will. I'll walk you home whenever you like."

For a while, they both stared out the window, at the storm moving in, and listened to the wind. The air felt charged and heavy. After a few seconds, Quasimodo suddenly became aware of a warm on his hand, which had been resting on the tabletop. He looked over, and saw that Suzanne had put her hand over his.

For a moment, he was utterly bewildered; he didn't understand. He looked up at her, his eyes wide. "What-"

Suzanne's face was crimson, and she bit her lip, looking almost as confused as he was. She did not move her hand. "I- You're amazing," she blurted out, "You're so cool and you don't even _realize _it and- I really like you. You're like my hero. I know I barely know you and you probably think I'm crazy but I- yeah." She swallowed, and looked at the table. He could feel the muscles tense in her hand.

There was a moment, one which seemed to go on forever. Quasimodo looked at her round, flushed face, and realized that the impossible had happened.

She _liked _him?

He almost didn't believe it. But then he did.

It was so bewildering. Was he even ready- did he even _want _something like this? From Suzanne, that funny, awkward girl with her social insecurities and her surprising wisdom? He thought briefly of Esmeralda. But then he thought of Suzanne again. Suzanne the confidante, Suzanne the advisor, Suzanne the crazy fun-poking goofball- and-

Yes. This was something good.

His eyes met hers, their hands still touching. "Really?"

She nodded.

He glanced down at their hands, then up to her face again. "I- I really like you too."

There was a moment, there, when their hands were touching and everything seemed too much, too good, to be real. Then the tension broke, and Quasimodo found himself laughing for sheer happiness.

Suzanne let out a long breath, and then she was laughing too. "I guess that means we're- ?"

"Who would have thought?" Quasimodo murmured.

"Sidney," she answered, matter-of-factly. "He caught me watching you in Art club, the little rat."

Sidney, the boy whose locker was directly beside his, shy old Sid- He'd known about this? And then there was Quasimodo's own circle of friends, who had been implying things even when they'd never met her- "Phoebus, too," he added, feeling stupid but too happy to care. He squeezed Suzanne's hand.

Then it occurred to him how this news would be taken at school, with a sudden plummeting sensation in the pit of his stomach. The whole school would be talking about it, and they'd both get teased and joked about but Suzanne would have it much worse..."Are you okay with people finding out?" he asked, swallowing.

"I've thought about that," said Suzanne, and suddenly she was much more serious. "My friends aren't going to understand. At all."

"We don't have to tell anyone," said Quasimodo, though the idea had a bad taste in his mouth.

She shook her head, resolutely. "There is no _way_ we're going to date in secret. I've decided I really don't care what they say."

She had already been high in his estimation. Now she was a saint. "You're incredible."

She shook her head. "They were never really my friends anyway if they don't even care about me enough to see why this is important. They were just people I hung out with because I didn't want to be a loner- I don't think any of them know me."

"I'm sorry," said Quasimodo.

"Don't be." She grinned. "But you'd better be right about me getting more comfortable around Esmeralda and all them. They seem like much better candidates for friendship."

He smiled. "Sure." But despite all her assurances that this was okay, he was still worried. He bit his lip. "Um- listen- will you promise me something?"

"Yes?" asked Suzanne.

"If my being- you know-" He gestured at his face. "If that ever becomes a problem for you, for whatever reason, will you tell me? I will never think any the worse of you. I just don't want you to be trapped, and-"

"I will," said Suzanne, "But I'll also promise you that will never happen."

Quasimodo looked at her, and for a moment he thought he was going to cry. But somehow he managed to hold it in.

They didn't get to Suzanne's house until four o'clock that afternoon. By that point both of them were soaked, frozen, and on the verge of hypothermia. Yet neither of them seemed to mind.

* * *

'Nother chapter I've been planning out forever.

The coffeeshop is based on an ice-cream store we found on a music trip to Quebec city. And Clopin's comment;

_"Don't be afraid, you two," said Clopin, raising an eyebrow, "you may as well just get busy right here in the music room. It's not like we're here or anything."_

...is based on another real-life even on another music trip. Suffice to say that any couple who chooses to go all PDA in a hotel room with 12 other tired, sugar-high musicians at 1:45 AM should be prepared for the consequences. Which may include vocal improvisation sets by the crazy Polish guy, over top of a very catchy guitar line, on the subject of your behaviour. Said consquences may be very embarrassing, and may last all night, or until the Polish kid passes out.

'Don't Be Afraid' is now the unofficial anthem of our music group.

-Mostly Harmless


	39. Chapter 39

Second-last chappie. Nearly there.

Random comment- you know what's frigging surreal? Hearing a recording of your own vocal group playing through a stereo in the room above you. It messes with your head. You start thinking 'hey, why am I not singing?' long before you actually realize what's playing. Even stranger is hearing your own voice solo. And wondering 'Why do I, an Irish-Scots canadian with only a very vague predilection towards Gospel, sound so Black?'

Gahh. I have to get my mom to stop playing that CD we made.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

39

Phoebus had finally found the perfect Christmas gifts.

They turned out harder to get a hold of than he could have anticipated. It took him all week, and the Christmas rush and the assembly hadn't helped. They had better be grateful.

Christmas eve morning, and his own house was a veritable war zone. Mrs. Chateaupers was trying at once to cook tonight's tortiere and stuff tomorrow's turkey and had ordered everyone to stay out of her way. Meanwhile, his father was shovelling out the massive glut of driveway snow left by the previous day's storm. Phoebus wasn't anxious to be dragged into helping either of them out, and so when Quasimodo e-mailed them all, asking them to meet up at Starbucks in an hour, it came as a relief.

It had been decided that today they would all exchange presents, so he wrapped up their gifts for them, shouted a goodbye to his father, and left. The sidewalks had yet to be fully cleared, and he found himself tramping through a foot of snow. But it wasn't far. He kept their gifts tucked into his coat, lest he should drop them or let them be blown out of his grasp.

He was the first to arrive at the Starbucks, but Esmeralda and Clopin arrived shortly after. Her family had been visiting his, so they had both gone together. Both of them carried bags, from which protruded packages in colourful wrapping.

Quasimodo was last to arrive, and it might have been that he was coming in from the freezing cold, but he looked unusually flushed. He seemed to be trying not to smile. When he had set down his bag of gifts, and they had all ordered their drinks, he asked them all to sit down.

He was losing the battle- a smile kept flickering on and off his face. "Something very unlikely has happened," he told them.

Phoebus had a shrewd idea it had something to do with his leaving early the day before.

"Did you guys get home okay yesterday?" asked Esme, oblivious.

Quasi gave her a slightly reproachful look. "I'm getting to that."

"Sorry," said Esmeralda.

"I- " Quasimodo hesitated, turning pink, and then he broke into a wide grin. "This is the ridiculous part. I have a girlfriend."

There was about a second's pause, as the information was absorbed into their brains. Then the bomb hit.

Esmeralda squealed, and launched herself at him, wrapping him in a massive hug. "You're kidding me!"

Clopin made a scandalized face, and started clapping.

Phoebus had had a feeling there was more than simple friendship between Quasi and the awkward, round-faced girl from his art club. But he hadn't expected it to actually come to something so soon. To Quasi, it must have been so utterly unexpected, so unbelievable- how different was the boy in front of him to the hopeless, cynical Quasimodo he had found the Miracle Workers with back in September! Phoebus clapped him on the back. "Wow, Suzanne, right? Awesome!"

Quasi, who had turned utterly crimson under their ministrations, gave them a sheepish shrug. "Yesterday instead of walking home we decided to go into town and then we went to a coffee place to get out of the storm and- yeah."

"The girl you walked home yesterday?" asked Esmeralda, still a little clueless.

He nodded. "We've been friends a little while, but... this was totally out of the blue."

Esme pursed her lips. "How do we know she's good enough? Because as far as I'm concerned she'd better meet some very high standards."

"The protective-older-sister rap, I should have known," said Quasimodo, rolling his eyes. "Don't worry, you'll love her. She's really-" he couldn't seem to stop himself smiling. "Cute and funny and all that stuff, but also... very wise."

"She picked you, didn't she?" offered Clopin, surprising Phoebus. Clopin wasn't usually that sincere.

"Okay," said Quasi, who evidently wanted to change the subject before he died of embarrassment, "I'm done. Gift time."

Esme sighed, dramatically. "Oh, fine... but only because I want Phoebus to see what I got him." She winked in Phoebus's direction.

"Oh, get a room," said Clopin, who seemed to feel that his duty in life was to prevent Esme and Phoebus getting even vaguely boyfrind-and-girlfriend-y in his presence. Then he looked at Phoebus, and raised an eyebrow. "Where are _your_ presents, anyway, white boy?" he demanded.

Phoebus had been waiting for a moment like this. He had planned out what he was going to say, but now that they were all in front of him it was even harder to stick to it that he had anticipated. He wanted to see their reactions... but no, it'd be better this was, especially after Quasimodo's news.

He smiled broadly, and reached into his jacket, withdrawing three envelopes. Esmeralda's was a little thicker than the others; it contained something else as well. "Don't open them yet. You have to wait 'til tomorrow morning."

Clopin shot him a dirty look. "Espèce de killjoy."

"Trust me," said Phoebus, resolutely, "It'll be better if you open them tomorrow morning." And, when none of them protested a second time, he handed them each their respective envelope, each one containing a ticket to the Montréal New Year's Concert.

* * *

By the way, all you non-french-speakers, in French, if you want to mildly insult someone, you can say "Espèce de ..." and then the word you want to call them, which on its own might not clearly be meant as an insult. For example, "Espèce de carrote" means carrot-top. Literally, espèce means species, and there's no real Englsh equivalent to its usage in this context. Except maybe 'thing', like 'you mean thing' or 'you ugly thing'.

Or at least that's my semi-bilingual understanding of it.

-Mostly Harmless


	40. Chapter 40

Last chapter! Man, even just saying that makes me sad.

Franly, I'm surprised how well it worked out in terms of it having exactly 40 chapters. I didn't really plan that.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now  
-Tales of NDCSH-

40

"Somebody wash some lettuce?" asked Esmeralda.

"I'm on it," said Phoebus, opening the fridge.

Clopin smiled, and gave the meat in the frying pan another stir. It already smelled amazing, and they hadn't even added all the spices yet. His uncle was training him up to be quite a decent cook. Still, it was hard to focus; he kept thinking about everything that would happen the next day, and the day after that. "Presque finished, Javier," he told Esmeralda's father.

Javier had known him all his life, and they were good friends. Esme seemed to have gotten most of her good looks from him; he was one of those charmingly dishevelled types. He was loud, and friendly, and had a knack for putting people at their ease. Esme's mother was working late, as usual, so they would have to eat without her, but she had promised to come the next day to see them all off.

Quasimodo, a few feet away, used the blade of a knife to push finely-chopped red onion into a pile on the cutting board. "We can add that about now."

"Okay, veggies into the pan, everyone."

It was that kind of dinner; where all the guests helped cook and none of it was planned in the slightest. After the chaos of Christmas, Esme's family didn't have the energy for a formal meal. And Clopin's parents had just been happy to get him out of the house. Accordion was getting more and more interesting, to him, but his audience was unwilling and weary.

Under Javier's guidance, they finished the last of the preparations, and brought the meal into the dining room. Esmeralda's house was small, and so it barely fit the five of them, but it was warmly-lit and pleasant. There was an ancient mandolin on the wall, and as he passed it Clopin gave the old, out-of-tune strings a twang.

"So," said Javier, around a forkful of rice, once they had begun to eat, "you kids are off to have unsupervised Fun, hm?"

Esme hugged the shoulder of Phoebus, who was directly beside her. She was wearing the necklace he had given her. "Thanks to him."

Javier grinned. "And you're not bringing me?"

"Um, _no_, we're not."

He held up a hand, gesticulating with his fork. "Alright, alright, leave the feeble old man at home to lonely starvation. I get it. So who's all playing at this concert thing?"

They all wanted to answer, but Clopin beat them all to it. "Leonard Cohen," he said, knowing Javier already knew and just wanted to milk his fake jealousy, "and Garou."

"And you're driving down the day before?"

Clopin nodded. He and Phoebus, the ones with licences, would be taking turns driving his parents' van. He had already shotgunned not going first. The car trip was about four hours long, but none of them would mind; he was looking forward to four free hours in which to listen to music, goof off and talk. They'd get into Montréal around dinnertime, kill a few hours sightseeing and shopping, and the next day they'd go immediately to the concert to get good seats.

"I'm totally psyched," said Esmeralda, letting out a breath. "A proper road trip."

Clopin could see he wasn't the only one practically humming with anticipation. He hadn't even been this excited for Christmas. He loved every part of road trips, from the coffee stops to the sleepless nights to the abundance of junk food. What made this one still better was how last-minute the planning had been; how they'd only found out they were going four days ago.

Javier looked at Quasi and Clopin, and leaned forward to address them. "Now, I'll be expecting you two to keep Phoebus away from her, at all costs. I can provide you with knives, if it'd help."

"Of course," said Clopin.

"He knows what I'm capable of," added Quasi, casting Phoebus a mock-threatening wink.

Phoebus gulped.

"What's the story behind that, anyway?" asked Clopin, mostly for Javier's benefit.

Phoebus chuckled. "He can lift me off the ground with one hand. If he punched me I'd probably die."

"Your daughter's virtue is in safe hands," said Quasimodo, bowing.

"What are the sleeping arrangements, again? You're all in one room?"

"Esme and I are sharing one bed," said Clopin, assuaging his uncle's worry. He took a sip from his glass of wine, and waved a hand towards Quasi and Phoebus. "The Gadjes get the other one."

Quasi looked at Phoebus, and made a repulsed face. "Gross."

"It doesn't matter much," added Clopin, "we won't be sleeping anyway."

Javier smiled, and set down his fork. "Well then," he said, picking up his glass, "a toast. To your voyage. May it be a happy one, and not plagued by rainfall, evil spells, or zombies."

"God, Dad, you're so weird," said Esmeralda, hiding a giggle behind her hand.

He shrugged. "Come on, toast with me."

Clopin raised his own glass. "Alright, I'll join you- to the voyage, the concert, and to all our other successes."

"Amen," said Phoebus. They clinked glasses.

He had more to say, though, more that he had not realized until now he wanted to tell them. He would be off to university soon, and he knew how much he would miss his current life. It was already painful to imagine parting with the school; the hallways he knew like the back of his hand, the teachers he had come to love and hate, the shows that were his lifeblood. He'd be leaving it all, so soon. Who knew when there would be a chance like this?

"Moreover," he continued, "to our futures, wherever they take us. May we remember one another, and all that we do bring us joy."

The four of them looked at each other- Esmeralda and Phoebus, together again, this time with a better understanding of what the other needed- Clopin, whose last year at ND was one he would never forget- Quasimodo, whose passion for art had led him to something he had never dared to hope for. There was a moment of perfect stillness.

Then they all cheered, and the chink of glass on glass was heard again and again.

"_God bless us, every one!"_

"…Okay, Clopin, you can shut up now."

_fin_

* * *

Well, this concludes my work on The High School of Notre Dame.

This story and its prequal have been my pet project since last summer. It feels very strange to be finished it, and sad too. but I'm also glad it's over, sort of, because lately I've been writing at night (my most creative time) and losing sleep over it. I'm tired. Even so, I conclude this fic with a touch of sorrow. But I have another idea in the works for my next project- an OC murder mystery-0 and am keen to get started.

As always, I not only accept but welcome spinoffs (that is, stories set in the High School of Notre Dame universe). I don't own this idea at all, so please feel free to change details as you see fit. I'd appreciate it if you'd drop me a line if you plan to write one- not so much so that I can okay it as because I'm just interested!

If you liked the fic, please R&R. Heck, even if you didn't, tell me why! And thanks of course to everyone who _has_ reviewed- your support makes all the difference.

Bye bye everyone!

-Mostly Harmless


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